


My Soul Alight

by AnonBeMe



Series: The Legend Of Praimfaya [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Earth wind water and fire, F/F, It may be a little slowburn-y but not intentionally, Magic, Non-Explicit Sex, doctor!clarke, heda!lexa, melancholic fluff if there's ever such a thing, my creativity is on fire here (pun intended), soulbinding, teeny tiny minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-11-23 10:13:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 123,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11400471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonBeMe/pseuds/AnonBeMe
Summary: “Am I in danger?” Clarke asks, feeling her heart in her throat.“Not if you forget.” Lexa gives Clarke a greeting nod, a goodbye, before disappearing from the doorway.ORThe AU in which Clarke, a doctor, treats a strange patient one night, and soon finds herself caught in a web of unexplainable events. The wordmagicseems implausible, but Clarke doesn’t know what else to call it. All Clarke wants is answers, damn it, and to reverse whatever is happening to her, so she stubbornly seeks out the strange woman – a leader of a land beyond invisible borders – who insists that the less Clarke knows the better. Clarke, however, is relentless and it comes with a price…





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you!
> 
> There are so many things I want to tell you about why I decided to write this story. But really, I just want you to sit back and enjoy the ride. I've wrung my brain inside out to challenge my creativity... and, please, if you have any questions or comments, do let me know. Your comments - good and bad - make me a better writer <3
> 
> As for now. Here's chapter one of my new fic. I've been waiting a long, long time to share this with you.  
> Updates should be weekly. For now.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# I

 

 

There's an ominous threat vibrating in the gloomy clouds tonight. It’s there in the massive amounts of rain splashing against rooftops and pavements, and in the thick clouds covering up the moon. The streets of Polis City are empty – understandably so – as people are safe at home, while the storm rages on outside.

The town hall bell tolls, the arrival of midnight crawls over rooftops as three shadows sneak through narrow streets. They’re running from danger and towards safety; risking their lives to save the entire existence of the world as they know it. They're a man and two women, soaked through their layers of dark clothes. They keep out of sight as best they can, hiding in dark alleys as cars drive by. 

“Stay with me, Heda, don't you dare give up on me now,” one woman says, anger and concern in her voice. She tightens her grip around the waist of the nearly unconscious one. “Lincoln, we need to move, we don't have much time.”

“I know, Anya,” the man named Lincoln says, his voice calm while his blood boils. They were ambushed, and while he wants nothing more than to find the _natrona_ – the godforsaken traitor – to punish the man, to avenge the attack on Heda, he knows saving Heda’s life is first priority. He swallows his rage as he takes one more look around the corner. “One car coming up, should be clear after that,” he says. 

“How far is it?” Anya asks. The rage is obvious in her voice even though she's been trained to keep calm in situations like these. The attack wasn't just an ambush on Heda – leader of _the kru_ , keeper of the balance between realms – it was an attack on her family, too; the injured woman in her arms the closest she has to one, a young sister.

“It's just around the corner. Once we're inside we should be safe,” Lincoln says.

“Protection spell?”

“The previous Heda cast it.”

“How did I not know this,” Anya wonders out loud, knowing full well that Lincoln’s job as a scout on the streets of Polis City – known to them as _Skai Houd_ , the land in the sky – gives him an advantage. Anya herself has been assigned as Heda’s main guard, thus mostly been roaming their own land.

Lincoln shrugs, his eyes still scanning for any dangers ahead. The limitation of Anya's knowledge isn't a concern of his. “Okay, clear,” he says, once more helping Anya carry the ragged-doll like body of Heda through another narrow street drowning in rain. 

They turn the corner and hurry through the entrance doors of Arkadia Hospital. As they cross the threshold, entering their safe haven, they feel the familiar tingle on their skin. The protection spell hides any sign of them being kru; for instance the kru mark behind their ear, and any tattoos they might have. The hospital walls function as a hideout for Heda’s entourage while it ensures secrecy of kru existence. It is kru belief that the two realms must not blend together, or it would have severe consequences – for both. 

Lincoln calls out for immediate attention, an unconscious Heda sandwiched between him and Anya. 

“We need help!”

 

°*°

 

Both hands casually grasping the stethoscope around her neck, Dr. Clarke Griffin strolls down the halls of Arkadia Hospital. Her double shift is almost over, and while the last couple of hours have been surprisingly calm, the first sixteen were madness. Disoriented by exhaustion, she almost can’t wait to get home and sleep. She rounds the corner and enters the open entrance hall of the emergency room. Walking up to the front desk to lean casually against it, she looks through the entrance doors and onto the rain-soaked streets.

“Wouldn't mind if it stopped raining within the next half hour,” Clarke wishes out loud. The sigh ending her sentence is a clear sign that she knows there's no chance of that ever happening. Something tells her the old umbrella in the back of her locker will cave within minutes of being exposed to a storm of this magnitude. 

“It's been raining buckets for the past two hours. I'm surprised we don't have water streaming in from the streets,” the front desk nurse says. 

“Long night ahead of you?” Clarke asks, giving her a friendly smile. 

“I'm off at five, so yes,” she smiles back. 

“Ouch, well at least there's a chance it will have stopped raining by then,” Clarke says, looking back out onto the street. 

“Hello, ladies,” a male nurse walks up to them and takes a stand next to Clarke. “How are you this evening?”

“Collins,” Clarke greets him, a nod, politely ignoring his request for small talk. He's a friendly guy, but Clarke has no interest in making their relationship anything other than a work related one. Besides, she knows he's been seeing Raven, her best friend, earlier this year. It didn't end the best of ways, it’s a disaster bound to happen if Clarke were to let Finn into her life. 

“Please, I told you, call me Finn,” he says, his charming smile on display. 

“I remember, Collins,” Clarke states, not giving him what he wants. To break their eye contact, Clarke checks the watch on her right wrist. It was her dad’s; it no longer works, but it’s all she has left of him.

Crestfallen, Finn looks around the room. “Have good night, Dr. Griffin. Got things to do,” he says, walking away. 

“Ouch,” the front desk nurse whispers, sharing a knowing look with Clarke. Both women know Finn has been trying to chat Clarke up for a while now. He ignores each and every one of her rejections, consistently insisting that she'll cave to his irresistible charm any day now. Clarke has stopped counting her no’s. 

“We need help!” A male voice booms. 

Clarke looks towards the entrance, her eyes landing on three people, a woman and a man holding up the weak body of a second female. They're all clad in dark colors, soaked through by the looks of it. 

Clarke runs to them without hesitation. “What happened?” She asks. 

“Gunshot wound. Her abdomen,” the woman explains, her voice stern, slightly impatient. “She needs help. Now!”

Clarke meets her eyes, dark and fierce. It feels like a threat, but Clarke doesn't cower; she glowers right back. “Follow me,” she says, turning around. She walks past the desk and tells the front desk nurse, “send a nurse to room…” She scans the board behind the front the desk, “three.”

“No!” The fierce woman says, “only you.”

Clarke is about to object, but a gut feeling tells her not to challenge this woman. The absolute, uncompromising command sends shivers down Clarke's spine. Her need to save lives screaming louder than her need to yell at this woman. “Fine. Have a nurse ready,” she tells the front desk nurse, still holding the fierce woman's gaze. “I _will_ call for one if I need one.”

The woman nods and Clarke spins around to proceed towards Room Three. 

As the door closes behind her, she instructs them to lay the injured woman on the examination bed. She pulls on gloves and takes a seat next to the bed. 

“Alright, I'm Dr. Griffin. What's her name?” Clarke asks. 

“Lexa,” the man says, earning a scowl from the fierce woman. 

“Lexa?” Clarke calls, checking her eyes. She doesn't need further investigation to know she's unconscious. “How long has she been out?”

“Ten minutes, tops,” the woman says. 

“Okay, I need to check the wound.” As Clarke pulls Lexa's shirt free from the wound, a thick, dark, almost black fluid spills onto her gloves. It's unexpected, and Clarke hesitates. 

“Shit,” the man mutters.

“I thought you said this place was under protection?” The woman’s voice is part panic, part accusation. 

“It is,” he defends. “Maybe the veil is not strong enough to hide the nightblood.”

“The what?” Clarke interrupts. “This is blood?”

The woman stares at her, clenching her jaw, and for a split second, Clarke isn't sure if she’ll get out of this alive. Even with her life in danger, Clark's priority is saving others, so she pushes back the fear and continues what she started. 

“If you want me to save her, I need to know what I'm dealing with here,” Clarke says, internally pleading that she'll be able to save the one they call Lexa and, hopefully, her own life too. 

“Nightblood,” the woman says. “The only thing you need to know is that biologically it works like normal blood, except for the color.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Clarke goes back to examining the wound, hoping the panic she feels isn't showing.

She works silently, with steady hands, occasionally asking for a helping hand to hold things for her or apply pressure to the wound. Clarke pulls out the bullet, drops it in the metal bowl, then goes to clean and close up the wound. It’s below Clarke's standards to work like this, knowing full well that her patient could wake up from her unconscious state at any time and feel massive pain. The rapid movements of her eyeballs aren't lost on Clarke. All she can do is pray that Lexa doesn't wake up, even though she knows the pain will be strong enough to knock her out again.

The woman with fierce eyes paces the room restlessly as Clarke adds a bandage to the wound. “How long is this gonna take?”

“Not much longer, but she needs to stay here, at least for the night, to make sure she's stable.” 

“That's not an option.”

“Anya,” Lincoln says. “She's safe here. She should stay. At least till she's awake.” 

There's an unspoken argument taking place across the unconscious body of Lexa. Anya’s eyes a raging storm against Lincoln's calm. Clarke knows that none of her medical advice will matter; there are secrets and dangerous things at play here, things Clarke doesn't want to be a part of. Instead, she silently waits for the two of them to decide on a plan. 

“Okay,” Anya says. “Let's wait till she wakes up.” She takes a seat next to the bed, looking at Clarke. “How long will it be, doc?”

“Hard to say. She lost a lot of blood. I can't give her any, because I don't know how it'll respond to hers. Her pulse is weak, but it's not fatal. Not yet. I'll check on her regularly. Feel free to go get coffee or food, it could be a while,” Clarke says. Meticulously, she begins to clean up after herself, gathering up the used tools and throwing out bloody cotton sponges. 

Anya sighs impatiently, as she rises to walk towards the door. “I need to contact Indra, let her know what's happening. I'll be right back.”

“Do I need to fear for my life?” Clarke asks, pulling off her gloves. It was supposed to stay a thought, so she panics a little as Lincoln looks at her. 

“No,” he says. “Anya is…” He pauses to pick the right word. 

“Intense,” Clarke finishes, still not entirely sure she believes her life isn't in danger. 

“Yes. That she is,” he smiles softly. “Lexa is very important to her, so she's a little on edge right now.”

Clarke nods. She gives the woman on the bed a once over. She looks young, mid twenties, maybe, too young to be a part of… What? Gang war? Clarke doesn't know what it is, honestly, she doesn't want to know. Lexa’s chestnut hair is pulled back, a French braids perfectly in place despite being drenched from the rain. 

Although Lexa is attached to a heart rate monitor, Clarke reaches to check her pulse manually, placing two fingers against her wrist. It's routine; the hands-on approach helps her get closer to her patients. 

Clarke feels the pulse against her fingertips, weak, but steady. She barely counts ten beats before the skin beneath her fingers heat up, significantly. It's a strange sensation, a buzzing, something Clarke hasn't experienced before. Per reflex, she looks down onto Lexa's wrist below her fingers, the area glowing a bright, warm color – as if someone held a torch light against the inside of Lexa's skin. Lexa's pulse grows stronger, and something deep inside Clarke's mind tells her to press her palm against Lexa's wrist. Doing so makes her hand glow, too. 

“What the…” Clarke whispers, equally terrified and in awe at the same time. 

“Holy shit. Whatever you do, don't let go,” Lincoln says, suddenly standing next to her. 

“Why, what's happening?” Clarke is panicking. 

“It's nothing bad, I promise. I'll explain later. Just focus on making her better,” Lincoln says, resting his hand on her shoulder. “And breathe.”

Clarke exhales, her lungs relaxing as she lets go of the breath she's been holding onto. Lincoln's hand on her shoulder is comforting, it soothes some of the panic. She feels, no, she _hears_ Lexa's heartbeat in her own body. It grows stronger by every beat until it matches her own and the glowing on their skin subsides. 

Then nothing. 

Lincoln's hand is still on Clarke's shoulder, Clarke's palm still against Lexa's wrist. She feels the anticipation in the room, as if Lincoln is expecting something to happen, but Clarke still can't wrap her mind around what she just experienced. Does Lexa's rare black blood glow? If that's the case, why does Clarke's hand glow too? 

Suddenly, Lexa gasps, pulling air into her lungs as if she'd been suffocating. Her eyes are wide and open as she stares at Clarke with a mixture of confusion and awe. 

“Who are you?” Lexa asks, eyes still locked onto Clarke's. 

“Uh, I'm Dr. Griffin,” Clarke says, confused more than ever. Lexa shouldn't be awake already, at the very least she should be dazed and in terrible pain. Neither seems to be the case. 

“You…” Lexa stops, swallowing hard. 

Letting her eyes fall to her wrist, Lexa reaches to grab Clarke's hand. Gently, she pulls Clarke's hand away and flips it palm up. There's a mark on her skin, a shade brighter than the rest of her hand. It looks like an infinity symbol, Clarke thinks, as she watches Lexa trace it with a careful index finger. 

“Can you see it?” Lexa asks, her eyes more fierce than Anya's. 

“Yes,” Clarke whispers. “What is it?”

“Did you have it before?” Lexa asks, ignoring Clarke's question. 

“No,” Clarke says. 

“Can you see this?” Lexa asks, holding out her own wrist. There's a similar mark where Clarke pressed her palm against it, only, it’s dark.

“Yes,” Clarke says, wanting to trace her finger along it too. 

“What color is my blood?” Lexa asks. 

“Black,” Clarke answers, afraid if she doesn't, bad things will happen.

“How is this possible?” Lexa looks at Lincoln. 

“I don't know, Heda,” he says, his voice obedient. “Maybe the spell doesn't hide the nightblood,” he offers. 

“Yes, could be, but she _healed_ me. How?” Lexa says, swinging her legs to one side of the bed. 

“You shouldn't move.” Clarke gets up to hold her in place. 

“I am fine,” Lexa says, holding up a hand to stop Clarke. 

Something tells Clark that this woman is used to giving people orders. Something also tells Clarke that this woman was unconscious, so she might not know about the stitches holding her abdomen together. Clarke feels it's her medical duty to make sure she's okay. 

“You need to lay down, Lexa. You were shot and I had to patch you–”

“–Dr. Griffin, I am fine,” Lexa interrupts her. 

Clarke won't budge, keeping a hand on Lexa's shoulder. Lexa realizes she can't command the doctor, so she takes a different approach. She pulls off the bandage in one swift pull. 

“No, what are y–” Clarke stops mid sentence. She blinks twice because nothing makes sense. The wound is gone, the stitches are gone. If it wasn't for the torn shirt covered in dark blood, there'd be no trace of the gunshot wound. “What... How…” Clarke stutters. 

She must be dreaming. 

It's the only rational explanation. 

“Heda?” Anya enters the room. “You're awake.”

“Yes, I am fine.” Lexa rises from the bed.

“We need to get back,” Anya says. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, I am fully healed,” Lexa says, “thanks to Dr. Griffin here.” 

“What do you mean, fully healed,” Anya says. 

“It means that I am fully healed, Anya,” Lexa says, definitively, staring her down. 

“Sha, Heda,” Anya says, bowing her head an inch. 

“Let's go. We need to get to Tondisi before dawn.” Lexa says, her eyes on fire but her voice cold as ice. 

Clarke stands in the middle of Room Three watching three dark clad strangers walk out the room as if one of them hadn't almost died, as if black blood and glowing skin and eternity symbols were normal things. 

Looking at her palm, the mark still there, Clarke runs a finger over it. Her skin is smooth, but the mark is burning against the tip of her finger. 

“Dr. Griffin?”

Clarke looks up to find Lexa's green eyes look at her from the doorway. There's something soft around the edges, a contrast against her stoic stance – head held high, hands clasped behind her back. She looks important, and Clarke suddenly understands the obedience in Lincoln's voice and the bowing of Anya's head. Clarke feels like she should be bowing too, but all she does is stare into the depths of bright emeralds. 

“Thank you for your help,” she says. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

“You're welcome,” Clarke says, not entirely sure what she actually did. 

“And for your own sake, you need to forget about what happened here,” Lexa says. 

“Am I in danger?” Clarke asks, feeling her heart in her throat. 

“Not if you forget.” Lexa gives Clarke a greeting nod, a goodbye, before disappearing from the doorway. 

A million questions and no answers. A part of Clarke’s mind insists she must be dreaming, but her gut is telling her this is real. Clarke wonders for how long the eternity symbol will keep burning on her skin, if it'll still be there tomorrow, or if it'll fade in time. 

One thing she's certain of: She won't be able to forget this no matter how hard she tries.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Mackerel! 
> 
> I'm blown away by your comments for the first chapter. I'm excited that you want to take this magical, mysterious journey with me :) 
> 
> Thank you <3
> 
> Here's a new chapter.   
> Enjoy!   
> ~anonbeme

# II

 

 

“Clarke?”

Clarke looks up to find her mother, Dr. Abby Griffin, in the doorway of Room Three. Clarke doesn't know for how long she's been standing there staring at the palm of her hand. Too long, she decides. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Abby walks into the room, a rare look of concern in her eyes. 

“Uhm, yes. I'm fine.” Clarke tries to swallow the dryness in her throat. 

“Are you sure? You don't look okay,” Abby says, resting firm hands on Clarke's shoulders as she searches Clarke's eyes for the truth. 

“I… yes. I'm just tired,” Clarke says, avoiding her mom's eyes. She slides out of her grasp and moves to the sink to wash her hands. The hot water feels cold against her palm. 

“Okay,” Abby frowns. “I'm off in half an hour, I could give you a ride if you want.”

Clarke frowns too. They both work at the hospital, but they rarely talk; they haven't since her dad died. Not a real talk, a least. “Thank you,” Clarke says. While she doesn't look forward to the awkward car ride, it is undeniably a better option than walking home under tonight's angry clouds. 

“I'll come get you when I'm done,” Abby says, hands idly pushed into her pockets as she takes hesitant steps towards the door.

“Mom?” Clarke calls. 

“Yes?” Hope in Abby’s voice. 

“I know this sounds strange, but what color would you say this is?” Clarke holds up a cotton sponge soaked with Lexa's blood. 

“Red?” Abby answers with a question, puzzled by her daughter’s odd behavior. 

“Yeah,” Clarke mutters as she throws it back into the bin. “Thank you, mom. I'll go get ready so you don't have to wait for me.”

“Sure, honey.” Abby watches her daughter for a moment, the confused crease between her brows, the way she stares into the bin as if it’s supposed to hold the final clue to a riddle. 

As Abby walks out of the room, she feels the little hairs on her neck rise. A tiny voice in the back of her mind tells her that Jake was right. About everything. Which means she made the wrong call keeping it from Clarke.

 

°*°

 

They run to Abby’s car – a station car black as the night – their heads hidden under coats to protect them from the rain. It's no more than fifty feet, but both women have water running down their foreheads and cheeks as they finally slam the door shut behind them.

Abby brings the car to life and pulls out from the parking lot. The swish-swish of the window wipers puts Clarke in a trance as she watches rain splatter against the windshield – greens and yellows and reds dance like water colors on glass before being wiped clean. Again. And again. 

“What's with your hand?” Abby asks. 

“What?” Clarke forces her eyes to look at her mother.

“Your hand. Does it hurt?” Abby casts her eyes upon Clarke's hands for a brief moment only. 

Letting her eyes drop, Clarke realizes she's been rubbing her palm with a thumb. She closes her hand in a fist around the thumb, willing herself to ignore the burning. “No, it's fine.”

This ride is every bit as awkward as Clarke was expecting. A lot of silence, half-hearted attempts at conversations from Abby’s side while Clarke doesn't encourage it, having given up on their relationship a long time ago. 

Clarke yawns. She leans her head against the window looking at neon signs and traffic lights zooming by. She blinks. More colorful rain splatter. She blinks again, but this time her eyes stay shut. 

Abby looks at Clarke like only a mother looks at her daughter. She wishes she could go back ten years and have another go. She wishes she knew what to say to fix their relationship. She let's her daughter sleep. It's only another couple of minutes until Clarke's apartment, but she looks like she needs all the rest she can get. 

At least she’s safe, Abby thinks, unbeknownst to the dream Clarke is currently having.

In her dreaming state, Clarke stands before a wall of flames. A fire, unusual in its black and white. The flames are only feet away from her, all-consuming, and of endless shades of dark and light. They're everywhere, curling upwards in an aggressive dance. Without touching them, Clarke _knows_ they’re razor sharp – it's a fact as old as time. 

In her dream, Clarke feels weightless. She’s standing, two feet rooted to the ground, but gravity doesn’t exist. It’s the least of her worries.

A sound, a deep rumble shaking her core.

Paranoia builds within Clarke's body. She senses the presence of something she cannot see. She squints her eyes, and there, within the depths of glasslike flames – behind the darkest of black and purest of white – something glows. It’s brief, a blink of an eye – two piercing, bloodred rubies.

The palm of her hand is burning, it grows more persistent by every shallow breath of air – like the blade of a knife slowly penetrating skin. She clenches her fist to fight the scream building in her lungs and the tears stinging her eyes.

“Clarke,” Abby says, startling Clarke awake. “We’re here.”

Looking from her mother’s concerned eyes to the apartment building in front of her, she feels disoriented. It was just a dream but it felt _so real_. She can still feel the heat that radiated off of the flames. No, not heat. Something else. Terror. Destruction, maybe. 

Clarke shakes her head to regain her focus, to ignore the pulsating heat in her palm.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Abby asks.

“I’m fine, mom. I just need sleep. Thank you for the ride,” Clarke says, as she slides out of the car.

“You’re welcome. Listen, if you and Raven aren’t doing anything this Sunday, how about coming over for dinner?”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Of course, honey.”

Pushing the car door shut, Clarke hurries to escape the rain. A warm shower and sleep ought to do wonders.

 

°*°

 

It’s near noon when Clarke wakes up, her body washed in sunlight cutting through the blinds. It's a peculiar thing, she thinks, to fall asleep to a soundtrack of rain pounding against her window and wake up to this blissful silence.

She rolls over onto her back, her body numb and heavy; it feels almost as if she didn't sleep at all. As she sits up, she's hit by a sudden nausea and headache. Her hand flies to her forehead, and for a split second, she wonders if she has a fever. 

Her hand. It's still burning. She checks her palm, sighing as she realizes what she already knows: the mark is still there. 

“You need to forget,” she mutters in a grumpy growl as she drags herself out of bed. Hearing Lexa's words in her mind feels more of a taunt than a good advice right about now. She pulls a hoodie over her head and her hair back in a messy bun before leaving her bedroom. 

“Hey,” Raven calls from the couch. 

“Mornin’,” Clarke yawns, steering directly towards the left cupboard above the kitchen sink. 

Their shared apartment is a joined kitchen and living room, two bedrooms and a bathroom. It's small, but big enough. It's a compromise they had to make to be able to afford a place close enough to the hospital as well as the university. They've been friends since grad school, roommates for a couple of years now. Clarke finished her studies two years ago, but Raven seems to be a student for life, continually adding to her already impressive resume of engineering diplomas. Neither women are often home, but when they are, they usually sleep or watch TV. 

“Just had lunch,” Raven dismisses Clarke's odd perception of time. 

“Lunchin’, then.” Clarke smiles to herself, amused by her own little joke. She can't see it, but she expects Raven to be rolling her eyes right now. She isn't wrong. 

Grabbing a glass of water and two painkillers, she goes to join Raven on the couch. “Lift,” she says. 

“I can't today,” Raven sighs.

“Oh, okay, hang on.” Clarke swallows the pills and places the empty glass on the coffee table. 

Lifting Raven's legs, Clarke takes a seat under them and then begins to massage the muscles in Raven's left leg – it was victim to a car accident a couple of years ago, her knee in particular still causes Raven a lot of pain once in a while. 

“Thank you,” Raven says. 

“No problem. Is it getting worse?” 

“No, you know, it's always worse when it rains.”

“Right,” Clarke nods. 

Rain. She's suddenly reminded of the strange patient she had last night. It still feels like a dream, something unreal. 

“Do you see anything different?” Clarke asks, holding her palms up for Raven to see. 

Raven lifts her head, stares at the two hands presented to her, then meets Clarke's eyes. “Still ten fingers,” she says, dropping her head back. 

Clarke rolls her eyes impatiently. “No, Rae, I mean in my palms.”

Looking once more, Raven says, “nope, why?”

Clarke frowns. The eternity symbol is clearly there, many shades lighter than her skin. She places both palms against Raven's arm. “Does one feel different from the other?”

“Shit,” Raven hisses, pulling her arm to herself. “What was that?”

“You can feel it?” Clarke holds her burning palm closer to Raven. 

“Yes, it's hot as hell, what happened?” Raven looks mortified, mostly due to the shock. 

“I don't know,” Clarke frowns. 

It happened when she touched Lexa; that, she knows. Other than that, she knows nothing. Even if she thought it a good idea to tell Raven, she wouldn't know where to begin. Lexa said she healed her. By hand, even. That fact alone is _crazy_. 

Hang on. 

Clarke places the burning palm against Raven's knee. The fabric of Raven's sweatpants muffles most of the heat. 

“What are you d–”

“–sssch!” Clarke interrupts her, needing to concentrate. 

Nothing happens. 

In desperate need of proof that last night's events actually did happen, Clarke refuses to give up. She closes her eyes and pictures Lincoln's hand on her shoulder. 

_Focus on making her better._

Clarke pictures nerve endings growing back and muscle tissue healing itself. She wishes for Raven's pain to vanish, and the stiffness in her muscles to disappear and never come back. 

A heartbeat that isn't her own pulsates in Clarke's hand. She knows it's working once her hand starts glowing. It's a dull glow, barely there, but enough for Raven to see it, too. 

“Clarke… What…” There's absolutely no scientific explanation to what Raven is currently witnessing. 

It feels like a struggle. Somewhere in Clarke's body _something_ is fighting. There's a wall Clarke can't get through, or, perhaps she could if it weren't for the chains keeping her in place. 

Clarke's hand stops glowing, Raven's heartbeat is no longer present in her body. Clarke feels tired, more so than she did already. 

Raven stares, eyes wide and mouth agape. The sporadic jabs of pain in her knee is gone. It’s still sore, but it always is. Clarke's hand glowed and then her pain was gone. “What just happened?” Raven whispers, bordering hysteria. 

A sudden nausea overwhelms Clarke. She pushes against Raven's legs. “Rae, move!” 

“Clarke, what happened!” 

“Rae! I'm gonna be sick!” 

Raven lifts her legs off Clarke's lap at the same time Clarke pushes herself off the couch. Clarke rushes to the bathroom where she empties her stomach into the toilet. Raven is right behind her, her muscles still stiff, but the pain no more. 

“Water,” Clarke pleads, barely able to hold herself up in a sitting position. 

Raven fills a toothbrush cup with water, hands it to Clarke and then takes a seat next to her on the cool bathroom tiles. 

“I… I don't understand what just happened,” Raven stutters, afraid that whatever comes out of her mouth sounds just as crazy as whatever is going on inside her mind. 

“I think I took your pain away,” Clarke says, not quite sure she believes the possibility herself. She meant to heal her completely – like Lexa was healed – but there was a barrier she couldn't get through. 

“You did.”

“I did? I healed you?” Clarke reaches to check Raven's leg, but Raven stops her with a hand. 

“Healed me? What are you talking about?” Raven is confused, a little worried, too. It's like Clarke is only partially present; it's as if whatever is happening is making Clarke an incoherent mess. 

Clarke then looks at Raven. She needs to tell someone, or she'll go bonkers. “Three people came in last night, one of them had a gunshot wound.” She starts from the beginning and takes Raven through the events of the night. She tells her about Anya, Lincoln and Lexa, about skin glowing and the unexplainable disappearance of Lexa's wound after she healed her, supposedly. She tells Raven that her hand has been burning ever since. She leaves nothing out: not the nightblood, not the mark in her palm or the one on Lexa's wrist.

It feels like a burden lifted off her shoulders, Clarke is relieved, but then Raven starts laughing. Surely, it's a dream Clarke had. 

“Why are you laughing?” Clarke is tired, her entire body is aching and she just shared something that might end up getting Clarke killed… and Raven is laughing? 

“I'm sorry, Clarke. It's a good story. You make it sound like it actually happened.”

“It did!” Clarke defends. When Raven starts laughing again, Clarke places her palm against Raven's bare forearm. 

“Ouuh, what the hell, Clarke!” Raven yells. 

“I'm telling you, I'm not making this up!” 

They stare at one another for what seems like a lifetime, challenging each other to admit the other one is right. 

“It’s not plausible, not scientifically possible, Clarke.” 

“I know! I agree. But how else will you explain that your pain is gone?” 

Raven doesn't have an answer. She actually witnessed it happen. She saw the glowing hand and felt it in her knee. It happened. It was _real_. 

Frowning, Raven sighs and leans her head against the bathroom wall. Clarke does too. 

“Holy hell,” Raven whispers.

“Tell me about it,” Clarke mutters. 

“I…” Raven starts, but isn't able to finish. She simply doesn't know what to say; any thought she may have seems like mumble-jumble. 

Many important conversations have been had between Clarke and Raven on the tile floor of their bathroom. It was here that Raven had a meltdown as she told Clarke about breaking up with Finn. She loved him, but he couldn't commit to just one woman, and Raven wasn't going to let him walk all over her. Several of those conversations have been had right here on these bathroom tiles in the weeks to follow. 

“My mom wants us to join her for dinner on Sunday,” Clarke says, as if it fits into the category of the unexplainable. 

“I'll be there.” 

“Haven't decided.”

“She’s reaching out.”

Clarke sighs.

 

°*°

 

Hordes of raindrops won't stop Heda and her two guards from getting to Tondisi. They move quickly through wet streets, Heda no longer needs to be carried, stealth no longer hard to obtain.

The oncoming dawn is a threat upon the horizon as they reach the hill east of Polis City. Tondisi Hill is a place not many people tread. Those who do, either seek the privacy such a secluded piece of nature provides, or they seek to travel to a place very few have access to. 

“We're clear,” Lincoln speaks. 

The three of them stride up the hill. As they reach the top, Heda stops; the other two mirror her. “Anya, as soon as we arrive, I need you to arrange for Indra to come see me. Lincoln, let your scouts know that Clarke is to be protected at all times.”

“Sha, Heda,” they both voice. 

“Clarke cannot know about this,” Heda elaborates, taking a step forward. 

“Where are you going?” Anya asks. 

“I need to have a word with Titus,” Heda says as she steps into the field between four stone obelisks, all of them eight feet tall. Each obelisk stands with its own unique, engraved symbol: a sprout, a breeze, a wave and a flame. The kru mark behind her ear tingles, indicating she's traveling beyond unseen borders. Her gaze subconsciously falls to the flame obelisk as her surroundings shifts into a blur. _Faya_ – the ancient word for fire – echoes in her mind along with images of the mark in Dr. Griffin’s palm like an omen.

“Heda,” Titus greets her, his voice mild. It always is around her. 

Heda steps away from the portal field and into The Sacred Library. She has no time for pleasantries, no room for shared stories or familiar smiles. With her chin held high, with demanding steps, she walks up to a bald man dressed in a long cloak the color of the earth they tread. Titus. The man who's been her mentor for as long as she's been Heda. He's the Keeper of The Old Books. He's the official Translator of Book Of Praimfaya. 

Under the high ceiling of marvelous stone arches, and between intricately carved wooden bookshelves, Titus bows under Heda's gaze.

“Tell me everything you know about the man they call Jake Griffin,” Heda commands.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys.  
> Here's chapter three for you. I'm so excited that you like this mystery thing :)
> 
> You'll find out soon enough that I'm the kind of fanfic writer that handpicks what I like/need from the canon universe and then twist it and mold it to fit my own universe. You'll meet Indra in this chapter - she's definitely a product of this approach. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3  
> And let me know what you think! I enjoy reading your thoughts and all the questions you may have to the plot.  
> ps. I added a few trigedasleng translations to the bottom of this chapter. If you need something else to be translated too, let me know.  
> ~anonbeme

# III

 

 

A river snakes its way across Heda's land. Lava erupts from the mighty volcano no one has ever climbed, and it runs down hillsides, through valleys, along flourishing land. Its journey ends when it reaches the wide, endless ocean. 

Where burning flames transitions into water, and where earth meets the sky, Polis Tower stands nine stories tall. Each and every stone of the monumental building is crafted from the elements and blessed by all four high priests – each one a master of exploiting the energy their chosen element holds.

A tenth floor is hidden by a veil of time and space. It is not below ground, nor is it above. The Sacred Library is only accessible by those who carry the sacred emblem: a circle with a cross. It adheres to only two people: Heda and the Translator. 

The highest floor holds Heda's emblem: a cogwheel. It is marked behind the left ear of Heda and her most trusted guards, and it is carved into the floor of the room from which Heda leads her people. Only those who wears Heda’s emblem can enter Heda’s property.

“Status.” Heda enters the room. Sacred stones shimmer like fiery flames underneath her feet as she crosses the room. She takes a stand on the balcony looking out upon the golden horizon. On her right is Anya, her most trusted guard, the one who follows her everywhere. On her left is Indra, her main advisor on everything that stirs in the kru realm – just like Lincoln has a finger on the pulse in Polis City, Skai Houd.

“He's dead, killed himself before we got to him,” Indra says. 

“Damn it,” Lexa mutters. “What do we know?”

“Skai man, not kru,” Indra says, giving Heda a sideways glance. “That's all. No ID, no address, nothing.”

Clenching her jaw, Heda pulls in air through her nose. 

“What's your order?” Indra asks. 

“We all know it was Nia’s doing,” Anya says, her hands balling into fists. 

“I need proof, Anya.” 

“Proof? She nearly killed you this time! What more do you need!?” 

Heda spins on her foot until she's face to face with Anya. “Proof!” She roars, her eyes like thunderstorms. 

Anya doesn't cower. “Heda, it–”

“–Link her to this skai man, Anya,” Heda demands. “Then I will see to it. But do not even consider going against the laws that we protect. We have worked too hard to throw it away for what, personal revenge? No. I will not have it!”

Anya nods, accepting Heda's order but not liking it one bit. 

“We have the body?” Heda asks. 

“Yes,” Indra says. 

“You know what to do.”

“Sha, Heda,” Indra bows her head before stepping back, and out of the room. 

Staying on the balcony, Heda leans her forearms against the railing. She lets her eyes wander along the horizon, the borders of her land. If she listens carefully, she can hear the rumbling of Faya Maun to the far left, and if she squints her eyes, she can see the beginning of the endless Biga Woda to the right. 

Heda looks straight ahead to the spot on the horizon where the howling wind meets the stormy ocean. If one were to wander in that direction, one would eventually stumble upon the frozen caves and fields of Ice Nation, their ruler, Nia, and her followers: azgedakru. 

“What are you up to?” Heda asks the wind, knowing she won't get an answer. 

Heda lets her eyes fall onto the big green crowns scattered in clusters as far as the eye reaches. An outsider would never know the numbers of people living in self-made huts and caves between all those trees. Heda's people have been safe from harm for a long time, now. Her gut tells her whatever Nia is planning, will be a severe threat to the peace Heda works hard to maintain. 

“Lexa.” Anya rests a hand on Heda's shoulder, it relaxes under her touch. 

“I am fine.”

“You were shot. You need rest.”

“She healed me, Anya,” Lexa says. She straightens up and lifts up the ripped shirt. 

One knee to the floor, Anya presses her fingertips against Lexa's skin. She frowns. “How?” 

Lexa bites her lower lip. 

“What are you not telling me?” Anya shifts to get up and meet Lexa's eyes again. 

“It stays between you and me, Anya. I mean it!” 

Anya responds to Lexa's pointed look with a subtle smirk. “Sha, Heda.”

Rolling her eyes, Lexa lifts her hands and points to her wrist. “Dr. Griffin holds the other half.”

“What, the mark of Praimfaya? No. Those stories aren't real, Lexa. There's absolutely no proof that…” Anya trails off, the austerity in Lexa's eyes sending shivers down her spine. 

“Only Titus can read the Book Of Praimfaya. He says what’s there is vague, but what we do know is that Heda's mark is there,” Lexa points to the colorful, stone carved cogwheel on the floor, then to her wrist. “ _This_ mark is there, and–”

Anya rolls her eyes. 

“I know you cannot see it, but it does not make it any less real. I feel it burning on my wrist all the time. The book speaks of a hidden second piece, an opposite. Dr. Griffin's mark is the same, except it is light and mine is dark. It cannot be a coincidence, Anya.”

A silence awakens between them where Lexa studies Anya's eyes as they look at the horizon. Lexa knows she envisions Nia’s ice caves. 

“Say Praimfaya is real,” Anya begins, “would that mean the Reaper is real too? Can it be summoned?”

“They are stories, Anya. I do not know. I have a bad feeling, though,” Lexa says, her mind wandering to Nia and her defiant worshippers.

Anya nods in agreement before her gaze drops to the plaza below them. Food stalls are lined up at the edges, a crowd is gathering. Someone wearing a long black coat, the hood covering their head, walks into the middle. “Indra,” Anya chuckles. “Always with the drama.”

“It earns the respect she needs to do her job,” Lexa smiles. 

They stay on the balcony watching as Indra motions for someone to join her. Two similar clad figures walk up to her carrying the dead body of the man who tried to assassinate Heda. 

Indra lifts her fists to her chest and thrusts them downwards igniting two balls of red fire in her hands. “This man is sentenced to an afterlife of eternal anguish. Let it be known,” Indra roars, her voice loud and clear all the way to the balcony, “that _natronas_. Will. Be. Punished!”

Indra lifts her burning hands towards the sky. “Your Heda is alive and well!” 

_Heda, Heda, Heda…_

The crowd chants Heda's name as Indra lowers her hands to the lifeless body. It catches fire within seconds, the flames licking hungrily at the air as they grow bigger, more persistent. 

“You're worse than her,” Anya groans, as Heda draws a circle with an open palm in the air in front her. Heda's symbol, a large cogwheel of red flames appears. She thrusts her hands forward, pushing the colorful illusion away from her and into the air to spin victoriously above the cheering crowd. Anya scoffs when it explodes into a million miniature cogwheels that gracefully floats towards the ground. A wide grin dances on Heda's lips as children jump up to catch them with their tiny hands. 

Heda is alive and well. 

For now, Heda thinks, her smile camouflaging the concern. 

For now.

 

°*°

 

The Dropship is a popular bar. It provides the happy crowd with a wide range of beer and liquor at night, and a decent meal for lunch and dinner. The interior is a classic blend of dark wood, old beer stained carpets and just the right kind of rowdy atmosphere that never gets out of control. The clientele is your regular mixture of university students, young minds caught in old bodies and suits in need of a beer after work. It's where you find Clarke and Raven whenever their off-work schedule aligns. 

“Clarke!” Raven throws a salted peanut at Clarke. It ricochets off her cheek. It's not the first. 

“Stop it,” Clarke says, glaring at Raven. 

“Tell me what's going on and I'll consider it.”

Clarke sighs, lifting her pint of beer to take a sip. She grimaces as the liquid touches the tip of her tongue, then places the glass back on the rustique wooden table and pushes it as far away as possible. “It's warm,” she explains when she meets Raven's confused eyebrow. 

“Huh,” Raven frowns as she cups Clarke's abandoned drink. “Mine is fine.”

“Perfect,” Clarke mutters, flexing her hand. She doesn't notice Raven has left the table until a new pint of beer is placed before her, condensation fresh on the glass. 

“Use the other hand,” Raven says. 

“What am I going to do?” Clarke says, lost in thought. 

“Thank you, Raven. It's very kind of you to get me a new, _free_ beer, Raven.” 

“Sorry. Thank you, Rae.”

The sarcasm on Raven's lips is replaced with a concerned frown when Clarke meets her eyes. 

“Okay, what are your options?” Raven takes a seat next to Clarke. 

“She told me to forget.”

“She obviously doesn't know you.”

“Obviously.”

“No way to contact them?”

“Nope,” Clarke pops the p, then takes a sip from her beer. 

“The other hand, Clarke. Stop wasting my money.”

Clarke sighs, moving the glass from left to right. 

“Think about it, how cool would it be if you could control it. Maybe you can make popcorn with your bare hands,” Raven grins. 

It earns a chuckle, at least.

“One hell of a party trick,” Raven continues. “it's magic.”

_Magic._

It pulls Clarke back in time. A childhood memory rises to the surface of her adult mind. Clarke is young, ten years old, maybe, give or take. Her dad's face is smudged by the time that has passed since then, but his voice is still clear as the day. He always tucked her in with a bedtime story. He was the best storyteller Clarke knew. He told stories about a young girl with golden hair and blue eyes who went on magnificent adventures to a land far away. A land where magic exists. Clarke remembers the dreams she'd have at night, of rare, colorful creatures, of a river of fire running through a village, of a tower that was home to the greatest wizard of all. 

The memories are painted as a smile on Clarke's lips. The wizard has an odd name, she recalls. Her eyes flutter shut as she hears her dad's voice. 

_”The most powerful wizard is named Heda.”_

_”That's silly, dad. It sounds like a head.”_

_”It means leader in their language, Clarke. Go to sleep, we'll continue the story tomorrow.”_

_”Night dad.”_

“Heda…” Clarke whispers, staring at Raven. 

“Ah, what?” 

“They called her Heda.” Clarke rises with such force it knocks over her chair. 

“Clarke! Calm down, take a seat, talk to me.” Raven places a hand on her forearm to keep her in place. 

“It… I…” Clarke stumbles. 

Raven picks up Clarke's chair and shoves Clarke back into it. She watches with a curious eye as Clarke chugs down half her beer. 

“Whenever you're ready,” Raven says. 

Clarke takes a deep breath before looking at Raven. “The woman who was shot. They called her Heda. My dad used to tell me stories about a magical world where the leader is called Heda.”

“Maybe it's a nickname. Maybe her dad told her the same stories,” Raven says, still not able to grasp whatever can't be explained by science. 

Clarke sighs. Then frowns. “What if it isn't.”

“So you're saying your dad used to tell you stories about the person who made your hand burn?”

“Yes. No! I don't know, Rae. I'm so confused. I need answers. I…” Clarke's eyes widen. “Dinner at my mom's on Sunday. I need to talk to her.”

“About a magical world and someone named Heda?” 

Looking at Raven, Clarke sighs again. “No… I don't know…” 

They both stare at Clarke's hand. Nobody blinks. Their minds are louder than the drunken beer drinkers around them. 

“I think dinner with your mom is a good idea,” Raven says. Not because she believes Abby can answer Clarke's questions, but because she hopes they’ll find their way back to each other again. 

“It's really not,” Clarke says, “but it's worth a shot.”

 

°*°

 

Afternoon colors are fading above the city as a tipsy Clarke and a giddy Raven leave The Dropship to go home. At least one of them is singing an unrecognizable song, at least one of them is shushing the other. 

Someone giggles. 

Someone stops. 

“Clarke?” Raven follows Clarke's line of sight. 

“I think someone's following us,” Clarke says, her drunken whisper loud enough to not be a whisper at all. 

“Don't be ridiculous,” Raven says, squinting her eyes at the dark. “You're drunk.”

“Am not.”

Taking a step back, Raven lets go of Clarke and Clarke sways into her. Raven’s bright laughter echoes between buildings as Clarke mutters a “shut up, Rae”.

 

°*°

 

The alcohol in her blood makes it easy to forget about eternity symbols and burning skin. While Clarke snores into her pillow, she reunites with childhood dreams. 

There's a clearing in the forest where glowing butterflies live. Clarke watches them in awe as the sun colors the sky like childhood paintings. Clarke feels ten again, a juvenile laughter bubbling in her lungs. There's a bustling in the bushes behind her and she turns to see what's happening. A slender woman reaches up to pull her dark hood down, and Clarke's breath catches in her throat as she recognizes the eyes looking at her. Emeralds. Fierce. ”You need to forget, Dr. Griffin,” she says. 

It's pitch black outside. Clarke sits in her bed with an aggressive thudding in her chest, wide eyes not able to blink. Feeling suddenly sober, Clarke finds her way to the living room and turns on the TV to keep her awake. Not that she needs it, the fire under her skin is too persistent for her to fall back asleep.

 

°*°

 

It happens again on her way to work. The sun is high in the sky, and she crosses familiar streets and rounds the usual corners, but the paranoia tingling on her skin is new. She tries to be smart about it. She stops to tie her shoelaces while throwing a subtle look under her arm. She _thinks_ she sees a slender figure in a long, dark coat in the shadows. She can't be sure. The lack of sleep and the post hangover headache tells her not to trust her own eyes. 

Turning another corner, Clarke gets an idea. A goddamn brilliant one, if she must be honest. The building facade is made up of pillars and she hurries to hide behind the first one. 

Then she waits. 

Clarke feels like an idiot hiding from phantom shadows in the middle of the day. She doesn't know how long she stands there, her back pressed up against rough cement, her lungs in desperate need of air. It feels like minutes, but realistically it's only seconds. 

As she's about to step back into daylight, the slender figure in a long black coat walks by. Clarke doesn't stop to think. “Why are you following me?” She says, stepping out from her hiding spot to face the back of her stalker.

The slender figure stops. “Goddamnit,” a voice mutters. 

It's a woman, but she's smaller than the one Clarke remembers. It's not _her_ and Clarke is disappointed. 

“Who are you?” Clarke asks when the woman doesn't move. 

“Follow me,” the woman says, as she starts walking. She guides Clarke down narrow side street. When she’s sure no one is watching, she turns around to face Clarke. “You're too smart for your own good,” she says. 

Clarke frowns. The woman in front of her is young – early twenties – but her eyes tell stories of many experiences someone her age shouldn't have. She's hard, fierce. Clarke fears for her life again. 

“Who are you?” Clarke repeats, trying her best to stay brave. 

The woman cocks her head to the side, clenching her jaw. Clarke follows her line of sight and sees the man who was with her in Room Three the other night. 

“Lincoln,” Clarke says. Lincoln was nice to her, maybe she's not in danger after all. 

“Dr. Griffin,” he nods. “I'm sorry about all of this. Please, go to work, we're not here to bother you.”

“Why _are_ you here?”

“I really can't say.” He moves his hands to rest behind his back. 

It infuriates Clarke. “You promised me answers, Lincoln. What's happening to me?”

Stepping towards Lincoln, Clarke lifts her burning palm in a desperate attempt of earning his pity. The woman steps in between them taking a defensive stance, both palms towards Clarke. Her eyes don't lie, she's ready to attack. 

“Octavia,” Lincoln says, resting a hand on her shoulder, “it's okay. She's not a threat.”

“How do you know?” 

“I can't say.”

“What do you mean, you can't say?” She bites out the words, her eyes never leaving Clarke's. 

“Heda's orders,” Lincoln says. “We're here to keep her safe.”

“What?” Clarke blinks. 

Lincoln drops his head. He said too much. “Dr. Griffin, please–”

“–Take me to see her,” Clarke demands. 

“I can't.”

“Well, then tell her to come see me.”

“I c–”

“– _Please_ , Lincoln. I need to know what's happening to me.” Clarke pulls in a sharp breath, fighting to hold her tears at bay. “I can't sleep, I have nightmares and my hand is burning… and… I need answers. _Please_.” 

The compassion in Lincoln's eyes is drawing Clarke in. “I'll see what I can do,” he sighs. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says. 

“No promises, though.” 

Clarke ignores him. She clings to the hope of finally getting answers. She nods, takes a step back, then another, and one more. She spins around and leaves Lincoln and Octavia behind as she goes to work. She doesn't have to check, she knows at least one of them will be watching her. It's a peculiar thing, she thinks, to fear for her life and feel safe at the same time. 

She seeks comfort in the knowledge that she'll get her answers soon. Once she gets them, she can go back to her normal life.

For now, though, she has a twelve hour shift ahead of her. She sighs as she walks into Arkadia Hospital. It's going to be a long night.

* * *

_Faya Maun = fire mountain  
Biga Woda = big water_


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome back!   
> I've given you a little insight into both worlds these past couple of chapters. It's hard to give a summary without giving spoilers, so let me just say that things are slowly beginning to entangle now. Let me know what you think :) 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# IV

 

 

Toothpicks. Yes. Clarke needs toothpicks to keep her eyes open. And buckets of caffeine. And someone to slap her across the face every ten minutes. She's on a break and she wishes she weren't because sitting still reminds her of just how tired she is. Her _bones_ are yawning. 

“Is this seat taken?” 

It's after 10pm and the hospital canteen is nearly empty. Ceiling lamps are shedding an artificial light on sterile linoleum floors and pastel blue table tops. Clarke looks up to find Finn smiling at her, one hand on the back of the chair across from her. 

“Collins,” she says. She nods for him to take a seat thinking conversation might be what she needs to stay awake. 

“Are you okay?” He asks as he places his tray with food on the table. 

Clarke gives him a drowsy nod. “Just tired.”

Sugar. Clarke could also use sugar to stay awake. That chocolate muffin on Finn's food tray certainly looks delicious. Clarke's bones are yawning, her mouth is watering and the palm of her hand is burning. 

“I heard you had an interesting patient the other night,” Finn says, digging into his mediocre plate of meatloaf. 

The cup of once was ice cubes in Clarke's hand is doing a lousy job making her forget about that night. Even Finn makes it hard to forget. It's not that she wants to ignore him, not intentionally, it's just that Clarke's mind has very little capacity for anything else besides what happened that night. Her response is a subconscious frown. 

“Are you sure you're okay?”

Blue eyes fighting to stay open meet Finn’s. He's genuinely concerned and it surprises Clarke. While Finn never promised Raven more than what he did give her, Clarke still doesn't like that he broke her heart. Clarke holds a grudge on behalf of her best friend, but she doesn't have it in her to keep it going tonight. 

“Uhm,” she swallows, her eyes flutter before they fall to the half eaten turkey sandwich in front of her, “it's been a couple of rough days.”

“Anything I can do?”

“I'll be fine. I just need sleep.” 

“Well, I'm here if you need me,” he says, eyes still on Clarke. 

A floor scrubber whirs away in the corner of the canteen. It echoes in the quiet space between Clarke and Finn. Clarke leans forward, supporting her elbows on the table, her forehead in her hands. A frustrated sigh escapes her lips as she lowers her left hand. She needs a new batch of ice cubes. She needs it more than to stay awake. 

“I'm gonna, uh… break ending soon.” Clarke gets up and throws her trash in the nearest bin. 

“Yeah, of course. Uhm, Clarke?”

Already on her way out, Clarke stops and turns to look at Finn. 

“Here.” He holds out the chocolate muffin for her. “I saw you eyeing it,” he explains when she doesn't respond. 

“No, that's okay, I can get my own.”

“It's the last one.” He gives the muffin a little shake. “Just, take it. You need it more than I do.”

Biting the inside of her lip, all Clarke can think about is a sugar rush. She may have high expectations for this chocolate muffin, but the way she’s feeling right now, it's worth the shot. 

“Thank you, Collins,” she says, walking back to Finn. She accepts it with the hand not currently hidden deep in the pocket of her doctor's coat. 

“It's Finn,” he smiles, amusement on his lips. 

“I know, Collins,” Clarke smiles back.

Clarke grabs a new cup of ice cubes on the way back to her locker. She saves the chocolate muffin for her next break, instead crunching on some ice to wake her up. Blinking her eyes open, Clarke leaves the locker room not quite ready for the next busy hours, but her feet are moving and that's something. Upon entering the emergency room, she nods to herself. An encouragement. She can do this. She lives to help people and these people need her help. A grave need for sleep be damned.

 

°*°

 

Midnight arrives and it isn’t treating Clarke nicely. Darkness envelopes the hospital, and it robs Clarke of her window view that has kept her awake thus far. Afraid to fall asleep if she’s left to herself, she takes a seat in the waiting room with a cup of ice cubes and her chocolate muffin. 

It’s another quiet night.

It’s been plenty challenging, though. Clarke has had to use an extra set of gloves to camouflage the burning palm. Even then, she still needs to be careful how she touches her patients. It’s her dominant hand, and if Clarke wasn’t this tired, she’d be pissed as hell. 

She didn’t ask for this. 

At least she has a chocolate muffin.

It turns out the palm of her hand melts the chocolate bits just enough to be deliciously gooey. With a smile on her lips, she licks her experiment off her palm. It _would_ actually be cool if she could make popcorn with her bare hands, Clarke thinks – something she won't admit to Raven anytime soon. 

“I’m here to see Dr. Griffin.” 

Upon hearing her name, Clarke looks up to find a familiar woman at the front desk. She watches a nurse pointing in her direction, frowning as she locks eyes with the woman. She’ll _never_ forget those eyes. 

Fierce. 

Anya.

Chewing the last bite of her muffin, one hand tightly cupping the ice cubes, Clarke gets up to meet Anya in the middle of the room. 

“What can I do for you?”

Anya fixates Clarke with a disinterested look. It tells Clarke exactly what she needs to know. 

“Follow me,” Clarke says. She walks by the front desk to tell them to page her if they need her. Then she guides Anya to an empty on-call room, flipping the light switch as they enter. 

The room is small. Rectangular. There's a single-bed against the wall to the door’s right, and across from it, a small table and a chair below a window. The light switch controls a bedside lamp with only one option: a soft, dim light. 

Clarke takes her time walking into the room. She places the cup of ice on the table, then crosses her arms over her chest and waits. The available moonlight makes the room less claustrophobic, but it’s useless to Clarke as she meets Anya’s stare. 

Anya's eyes still speak threats, but she stays quiet. 

Clarke is tired and so done with this.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Anya continues the silent stare. 

Seconds tick away. 

Crinkles form on Clarke's forehead, defiant and stubborn. Clarke opens her mouth, but whatever she's about to say is interrupted by someone else entering the room. She turns to find emerald eyes look at her. She won't ever forget _those_ eyes either. 

“Thank you, Anya, you can go now,” Heda says, her eyes never leaving Clarke's.

“I'll wait with the others,” Anya says as she walks out of the room. 

As the door closes shut, Heda walks to stand by the table. She looks out the window, and Clarke watches the back of her head. Clarke doesn't remember if Heda was a man or a woman in her dad's stories, but the one in front her right now is as majestic and elegant as Clarke used to picture. Rank. Respectable. Frightening if need be, Clarke supposes.

The black long coat is hugging Heda's figure as if it were tailored specifically for her. The fabric is unlike anything Clarke has ever seen and she finds herself wanting to brush her fingertips against it. She suspects it to feel like soft leather, but… _softer_. Thinner. 

“I told you to forget,” Heda says. 

Clarke scoffs. 

Heda’s eyes sadden, but only the moon is a witness. 

“Does your, uh, mark burn too?” Clarke asks.

“Yes.” Heda says. 

“What does it mean?”

Heda's eyes fall to the cup of ice cubes in front of her. She touches the rim with a cautious finger before turning around to meet Clarke’s eyes. She meets her as Lexa, and Clarke recognizes the difference between these two personas as if she knew both of them intimately. The truth is, she knows neither of them, and she probably never will. 

“The burning?”

“The mark.”

“I cannot tell you.”

“You can't or you won't.” It's not a question. It's an accusation. 

“I…” Lexa pauses, and Clarke thinks she sees a flash of Heda in her eyes. 

“What _can_ you tell me?” Clarke asks, frustration boiling under her skin. 

“Lincoln tells me you have nightmares,” Lexa says, ignoring Clarke's question. She reaches into her pocket to retrieve a tiny bottle containing a honey colored liquid. “One drop in a glass of water before you go to bed.” She holds it out for Clarke to take. 

“What is it?” Clarke stares at the bottle. 

“It is oil extracted from plants. It will help you to a dreamless sleep.”

Clarke takes the bottle. She runs a thumb over the smooth glass before sliding it into her pocket. “Anything I can do about the burning?”

“Other than ice? No.” Lexa’s eyes drop to the floor. 

Clarke gets the feeling it's more complicated than just a yes or no answer. She wants nothing more than to grab Lexa's shoulders and shake all the things she isn't speaking out of her. Even in a tired-induced state of delirium, Clarke knows she shouldn't lay a hand on her – on Heda. But _god_ does she want to.

“Is it permanent?”

“I do not know, but my guess is that it is,” Lexa says, meeting Clarke's eyes again. “I am sorry.”

Clarke nods, detached from emotion. She wants to scream. She balls her hand into a fist. She wants to ram it through the wall. Instead she squeezes it tighter until the nails digging into her palm hurts more than the burn. “Okay.” Clarke's sigh is shaky. She wants to cry.

“Dr. Griffin–”

“Clarke.”

“What?”

“It's Clarke. My name is Clarke.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says. She wants to say more, but stops herself with a frown.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. I cannot promise that I have an answer.”

“What are you protecting me from?”

Just like that, Heda is back. Her eyes grow distant, she clenches her jaw. Clarke pleads with her eyes, because she can't find the words to explain how desperately she needs _something_ to hold on to – anything to explain what the hell is happening to her. Clarke sees it, then, the struggle between Heda and Lexa. A flash of emerald, a minuscule intake of breath. The way she forcefully links her hands behind her back as if needing the physical strength to keep them in place, to keep _herself_ in place.

Of course, Clarke doesn't know her at all. She could be wrong, for all she knows. It doesn't matter. Heda won't answer her question and Clarke is furious.

Angry. 

Heartbroken. And she doesn't know why. 

The walls seem to cave on Clarke. This room is suddenly too small for the both of them. Clarke needs fresh air. She takes a step back. Then another. And one more. She grabs for the door handle and hurries out of the room.

“Clarke.”

Clarke doesn't look back. She doesn't care if she hears Lexa's voice. Heda's eyes still flood her mind.

“Clarke!”

“Leave me alone!” Clarke calls over her shoulder. She walks with forceful strides. Her mind is racing, and it surprises her when Lexa stands in front her, stopping her with firm hands on her shoulders.

“Clarke, listen to me,” Lexa says, her voice soft and demanding all at once.

Damn her stupid, emerald eyes, Clarke thinks. She wants to run the other way, but she can't.

“I know this is hard for you. I know you want answers and I do wish I could give them to you.” Lexa speaks in a hushed voice despite them being the only people in the hallway.

“Why can't you?” Clarke hisses, tears threatening to spill.

“I need to keep you safe,” Lexa says, weighing every word before speaking it. “The less you know, the better.”

“No.” Clarke says. “It's not good enough.”

“It has to be. I cannot give you anything else.” 

Clarke stares at the mark in her palm. “Is it magic?” She whispers. 

“Your world calls it magic, I have learned,” Lexa smiles. “Where I come from we call it laws of nature.”

“My dad told me stories of a Heda… That's you?

Lexa frowns. Clarke sees the struggle in her eyes and wishes she knew what to say to make the words spill from her lips.

“I am Heda to my people. I am Lexa to you. If your dad told you about a Heda it must have have been my predecessor. I have only worn the title for a handful of years.”

Lexa's eyes fall to Clarke's hand and holds out her own. “Let me,” she says.

It is with utmost care that Lexa wraps her hands around Clarke's. If Clarke weren't too busy holding her breath and staring at their joined hands, she'd find a delicate vulnerability in Lexa's eyes – something Lexa knows she isn't able to hide no matter how hard she tries. 

The tingle in Clarke's palm is familiar, still, the glowing surprises her. Lexa's heartbeat resonates in her bones and she wonders if Lexa can feel her pulse, too. As the glow fades, Clarke realizes what Lexa has done. Her hand is warm, but it isn't burning anymore. It makes her more aware of how soft Lexa's hands feel against her own.

Lexa gasps. 

When Clarke looks at her, she's met with eyes pressed shut and a clenched jaw. “Are you okay?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa nods. “I mean you no harm, Clarke.”

“I thought you said I couldn't do anything about the burning.”

“It is only temporary.”

“How long?”

“Hours, maybe.”

“It makes you sick,” Clarke states.

“Temporarily,” Lexa says, a sad smile on her lips. “I am not a healer.” 

Emerald eyes grow dark and mournful, and Heda takes a step back, letting Clarke's hand slide out of her own. 

“Lincoln will look out for you,” Heda says, keeping her head in a bow. “I must go now.”

In an abandoned hallway of Arkadia Hospital, Clarke is helplessly stuck to the newly washed floor. She watches the form of Heda disappear down the hall and around the corner. Only when she's entirely out of sight does Clarke examine her palm. The heat is bearable now, the mark is still there.

Clarke wonders if this is her life now; forever connected to a leader of a magical world she grew up believing was a made up story. Forever branded by a burning mark in her palm unbeknownst to what its function is.

She wonders if she'll ever get any of her questions answered, or if they'll continue to pile up until her head explodes. 

She wonders if she'll ever see Lexa again. 

The bleep-bleep of her pager pulls Clarke back to the real world. She spins on her heel and hurries down the hall towards the emergency room where she's needed. 

Clarke's mind is spinning, her feet are running. She doesn't notice the shape of a person pressed up against the wall around the corner, or the intruding eyes that were witness to her interactions with Lexa. 


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> Let me begin by saying that I'm humbled by all your nice comments and kudos and whatnot. I'm so excited you guys are into this. I can't wait to take this journey with you :D
> 
> I know it's not Sunday, but I felt like treating you with next chapter a couple days early. I hope you're all enjoying your Thursday <3
> 
> And I hope you like this chapter. It's time for that dinner at Abby’s that Clarke doesn't want to go to. 
> 
> (It means next chapter is up next Thursday at  
> the latest.)
> 
> Enjoy.  
> And let me know what you think.  
> ~anonbeme

# V

 

 

The front door to Clarke's childhood home is painted off-white. It used to be bright red, but that was a long time ago, when Clarke's dad was still alive. 

“I don't think I can do this, Rae,” Clarke says, her finger hovering over the doorbell. 

“You have to press it, Clarke. It's not rocket science.”

Raven’s smartass comment doesn’t affect Clarke. It’s a best friend privilege to be the target of such, and it’s a well-developed talent of Clarke’s to completely ignore them. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t repay the favor, because it takes all her strength to fight the panic piling up inside her body. The truth is, she would rather face all of Anya's threats upon her life – even have some of them actually happen to her – than ring that doorbell.

It's the knowledge that Clarke's mom is on the other side of the door – Clarke’s mom, Clarke’s childhood and memories of Clarke’s dad. It’s been ten years, but it still feels like a blow to solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her, sending ice through her veins leaving her a shaky mess.

Clarke exhales slowly to control her breathing and swallows the lump in her throat. She rings the doorbell already feeling the regret creep up her spine, but Clarke is on a mission and there's no going back now. 

Holding her breath, she waits for her mom to open the door. It's Raven who crosses the threshold and greets her mom first. It's also Raven who turns around and glares at Clarke until she, too, steps inside. 

“I'm glad you could make it,” Abby says. 

“Me too,” Clarke says, stepping past Abby and Raven and into the house. If Clarke tried to sound sincere, she failed miserably. 

“She'll come around, Abby,” Raven says, giving her a reassuring smile. 

Abby nods, but she's not so sure anymore. Once she passes on Jake's message to Clarke, chances are that Clarke won't ever speak to her again. Definitively. 

“Come on in, Raven. Maybe you can help me in the kitchen.”

“Of course.”

 

°*°

 

Family photos hang side by side down the narrow hallway of her old home. The walls are white, maybe just a tiny hint of grey, newly painted, but the photos are the same. Clarke studies each and every one of them closely. The photos of her dad get extra attention. There are those that bring a smile to her lips, and those she reminisces with a grieving heart. The last one in the row is her favorite. She leans in close to better see the details of her dad’s wide smile and the smear of paint on his face. The two of them are side by side, both holding up the palm of their hands, fingers spread wide. Fingerpainting was always a lot more fun with her dad, she recalls. She was allowed to make a mess. 

It was a good day.

No marks, no burning palm. 

It strikes her that she only knows of one other person who can see her mark. Sometimes she wonders if she’s going insane, if somehow she’s making it all up. All of it. She retrieves her phone from her pocket and takes a photo of her palm.

The result was to be expected, she decides. No mark on the photo. She deletes it, no hesitation. 

Maybe Clarke _is_ crazy. She can’t deny it’s a possibility. She’s back in her childhood home after not having set a foot here in more than two years; she’s home for a dinner with her mom, for crying out loud. That alone is highly questionable behavior, even for Clarke. 

Moving on, she walks up the thirteen steps to the second floor. Her fingertips dance against the smooth mahogany stair rail, and for a brief moment she allows herself to become eight-year-old Clarke at bedtime again.

The second floor holds a restroom, Clarke’s bedroom and a guest room. The wooden letters she painted herself – yellows and greens and polka dots – still hang on her door, the _A_ slightly crooked. This is still her room. She carefully pushes open the door to find it exactly as she left it when she moved out. The drawings she made with her dad are still pinned to the wall above her desk. The walls are her dad’s favorite color: cornflower blue. Clarke painted them after he died. 

Leaning against the doorframe she watches a memory of herself climb under the covers and her dad taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He would gesture animatedly as he told his stories of that land far away, and then he’d stroke her hair once and kiss her on the forehead before turning off the light.

With the back of a hand, Clarke wipes away that one tear that escaped without her consent. She shuts the door to go back downstairs thinking she’ll go snoop around her dad’s office after dinner. For now, though, she needs Raven’s support if she’s to survive this evening.

They’re in the kitchen. Raven and her mom. They always got along well. Clarke stands by the door watching them for a while. They talk about Raven's leg, and Abby recommends a new physician at the hospital who specializes in knee injuries. 

Clarke feels a pang of guilt. 

Amidst not wanting to be near her mom, Clarke often forgets that Raven sees Abby as a substitute parent. Clarke makes a mental note to be a better friend and encourage Raven to keep in touch with Abby. It's the least she can do for her best friend. 

Then she joins them by the kitchen island. 

“Need help?” Clarke asks. 

“No, that's okay. We're almost done,” Abby says, adding cutlery to the bowl of salad. 

Instead, Clarke takes a seat and Raven throws an arm around her shoulders, giving her a little squeeze. Clarke leans into her for comfort. 

“How's the hand, Clarke?” Abby asks. 

“My hand?” 

“Yes. It was bothering you the other night.”

“Oh, uh… It's fine.” 

Avoiding her mom's gaze, Clarke inspects the vase with flowers on the kitchen island. Tulips of many colors hang sleepily over the rim. They're a couple of days old, Clarke thinks, it's not usually like her mom to neglect her picture perfect. Clarke runs a finger along a leaf. It tickles on her fingertip, no, it _tingles_. This leaf is brighter than the others, how peculiar. 

Raven's elbow connects with Clarke's arm perhaps a little more brutal than necessary. The disruption causes Clarke to forget about the tulips. She wants to scold Raven, but the pointed look she's met with makes her realize what just happened. 

“Thanks,” Clarke mouths. 

From across the kitchen island, teary-eyed and full of regret, Abby watches her daughter. Her eyes flit between Clarke's hand and the newly awoken tulip. 

Abby knows. 

Only because Jake told her. 

Pressing her palms against the table surface, Abby closes her eyes and hangs her head. She nods, small frantic movements. 

“Abby?”

“Mom?”

“There's something I need to tell you, Clarke.” Abby opens her eyes to find two pairs of worried eyes look at her. 

“What is it?” Clarke swallows the lump in her throat. Thoughts of the most horrible of diseases and losing a second parent way too early crosses her mind. 

“I… Give me a second…” Abby hurries out of the kitchen, but before Clarke can follow her, she's back again. 

“This was your father's.” 

Abby places a wooden chest the size of a shoebox in front of Clarke who recognizes it as something her dad built. Running a finger along the intricate carvings on the lid, Clarke realizes the mark in her hand is also carved into this chest. 

“Before he died he told me… Things… That the stories he told you as a kid were true. And I didn't believe him. I thought he'd hit his head. But then I saw you the other night. Remember? You asked me about the color of the cotton sponge? And then… This,” Abby points to the tulips, eyes wide and not able to finish her sentence. 

“What are you saying, mom?” Clarke frowns. 

“I don't know, Clarke. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't understand any of it,” Abby says, frantically. “He told me to give that to you. He said only you had the key.”

Clarke looks from her mom and back to the chest. “How long have you had this?”

Abby doesn't answer. 

Clarke thinks it doesn't matter what the answer is. 

“He never gave me a key,” Clarke says, frowning. The lack of a keyhole puzzles her. She places her palms flat against the marble surface – to steady herself, to better focus. It stings against her left palm. 

Wait a minute. 

Clarke lifts her hand to study the unwelcomed infinity symbol on her skin. She then moves it to hover over the infinity symbol on the lid. Holding her breath, she looks at Raven, then at her mom. Confusion written all over their faces. She doesn't blame them. If only they knew about Heda making her minions follow her around. Everything is so absurd, she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. 

So she sighs instead. 

As she presses her palm against the reddish brown wood – a sort she doesn't recognize, she wonders if it originates from this world – she hears her mom gasp out a ”Clarke” and Raven saying, “it's okay, Abby.”

Clarke can't be bothered. She's instantly drawn to the glow and the tingle. It's different, this time. The glow is a bright shade of red and the tingle is more of a buzz. An unsteady rumble, like a tiny jackhammer off its course. It settles in her bones and she _knows_ the mark is the key, but it still _feels_ like something is missing. It's almost as if she has the wrong keyword. 

She shivers. 

It has happened once before. The nausea is sudden and more overwhelming this time. She runs to the bathroom but doesn't get more than three steps away before bending over to vomit on the mosaic kitchen tile floor. 

“Clarke!” is the last thing she hears before everything turns black.

 

°*°

 

She's in a maze. She must be. Every turn she takes it all looks just the same. Torches illuminate the corridors with a weak achromatic glow. Stone walls higher than she's ever seen, vines lush with green leaves eagerly climbing along cracks and upwards. 

She keeps running. The ground beneath her feet is soggy and mushy. Her shoes aren't made for this, but she must keep moving. She _must_ find the exit. 

Turning another corner she stops abruptly. Before her, the ground opens up. It looks bottomless. A massive black hole. It looks hungry. 

The jump is too far. The longer she waits, the bigger it gets. She needs to find another way. Turning around, she comes face to face with a wall that creeps closer. Inch by inch. There's no way out. There's a deep rumble from the depths. It sends shivers down her spine. 

How did she get here? 

What is this place?

What is happening? 

The wall keeps pushing, closing in on her. The hole is _right there..._

Hands are cupping her cheeks, the owner carefully watching the rapid movement of her eyelids. 

“It's a dream, it's okay.”

Eyelids shoot open and panic-stricken emeralds emerge. “Anya,” Lexa gasps. 

“Hey, it's okay.” 

“I…” Lexa pushes against Anya, desperately needing fresh air. She stumbles from the couch towards the door, Anya on her heels. The second Lexa’s outside, she takes a deep breath, pulling air into every corner of her lungs. She squeezes her eyes shut, everything is spinning. 

The nausea is new. 

The dreams aren't. 

“Here.” Anya guides Lexa to take a seat on a tree stub, then sits down next to her. 

Around them, fireflies buzz in their hovering state. Branches of soft, green leaves from colossal trees hang like a blanket over them. Between small openings, the crimson sky shines. 

This is Lexa's home – carved into a hill, the boundaries of her domestic identity hidden by a disguising spell. Behind the hill, Polis Tower stands proud and tall against the horizon – Heda's home. 

“What's going on?” Anya asks. 

“The maze. It progresses. There is something below it… I do not…” Lexa clenches her jaw, two fingers squeezing the bridge of her nose. 

“Below the maze?”

Lexa nods. “Something that breathes,” she says, a crease between her eyes as she looks at Anya. “I can feel it, Anya. I cannot explain… It…” Lexa shakes her head, her eyes fall to the ground. “I feel the darkness and I see absolute destruction, and I cannot stop it.” 

It's Heda who carries the burden of keeping her people safe, but it's Lexa who crumbles underneath it. Anya knows this. _Only_ Anya knows. While Heda keeps everyone else safe, Anya keeps Lexa safe. That's how it works. 

“Can you…” Lexa winches as she grabs her wrist. 

“I'll send for Nyko,” Anya says, already on her feet.

“Anya?”

Anya stops. “I know. I'll contact Lincoln, make sure your blonde doctor is safe.”

“She is not my blonde doctor,” Lexa dismisses, a weary sigh, “but thank you.”

Anya smiles, her back turned to Lexa. “Sha, Heda.”

 

°*°

 

Clarke groans. 

Massive headache. Stinging eyes. Aching muscles. Burning palm.

Oh, fuck. 

She blinks. It's her mom's living room; her couch. It makes no sense. Or wait, maybe it does. 

Someone has wrung her body inside out and run her over with a truck. That's what it feels like. Lying down _hurts_. 

“Clarke, honey. Take it easy, take your time,” Abby says. She sits on the edge of the couch, a cautious hand on Clarke's shoulder. 

“What happened?” Clarke ask, her voice like sandpaper.

“You fainted. Honey, please, don't move.” Abby presses gently against Clarke's shoulder to make her stay, and Clarke doesn't fight back. “Raven, could you get me a glass of water?”

“Sure,” Raven says. 

“Ice,” Clarke says. Groaning, still. 

“On it.”

Clarke lets go, letting the entirety of her body's mass fall back into the cushions. Clarke _is_ a cushion – a cushion with a burning palm. A tired cushion with a stupid, burning infinity symbol in her palm. 

An ice pack is being shoved into her hand. Someone tells her to sit up and drink some water. It sounds suspiciously a lot like her mom. Right. She's at her mom's. 

Clarke shakes her head.

“Yes. You need water.”

No. Yes. She needs water, she knows this. That's not why she's shaking her head. 

She doesn't want to be here. She's mad at her mom, damn it! Her dad died and then her mom pushed her away when she needed her the most. Ten years later she gives her this stupid chest that was her dad's, and it feels like she opened Pandora’s box, except it's still stubbornly closed, as far as she knows. 

She had it for all this time – her mom, her _mother_. She kept secrets. 

Clarke wants to disown her. Can you disown a parent? God, she wants to. 

A glass of water is being pushed into her hand. Guess, she's sitting upright now. She gulps it down all at once. “Thank you,” she mumbles. 

The ice pack is melting against her palm, water dripping from the edges of her hand and onto the couch. Clarke doesn't understand how they're able to land on her cheeks, too. 

Oh. 

“Clarke,” Abby sobs. 

“Abby, let me.” 

The arms that have comforted Clarke for the past decade wrap around her once more. Clarke feels safe. Vulnerable. Raw. 

“I don't want this,” Clarke breaks. “I don't want this mark. I want my dad back.” 

“I know, Clarke. I know. We'll fix this,” Raven says, tightening her hug. 

“How?” Clarke chokes. 

“I'm smart. I'll figure something out.”

It earns Raven a wet chuckle – careful and paper thin – against her shoulder. 

While Raven comforts Clarke, Abby retreats to the kitchen where she, too, breaks. With long awaited tears streaming down her cheeks she puts homemade chicken and pasta and broccoli salad in plastic containers for her two daughters to bring home. 

“I'm sorry, Clarke,” she says, a hand against her lips trying to steady her shaky breath. “I'm so sorry, Jake.”


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> I think it's time to thank you for your patience with this story. I understand you're frustrated with all the questions and no answers. If it's any consolation, it's totally on purpose ;) 
> 
> This chapter is not meant to add more to the pile of questions. It should function as a bridge. I hope you will enjoy it. I had plenty of fun writing it <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# VI

 

 

“Here, hold this for a sec,” Clarke says, as she gently shoves the wooden chest into Raven's arms. 

Determination calls for Clarke to cross the street, leaving a puzzled Raven behind in front of their apartment building with Jake's secret in one hand and a bag with plastic boxes full of still lukewarm dinner in the other. 

“Where are you going?” Raven calls after her, but only silence echoes back. 

Grey clouds are hanging from the sky, heavy like drowsy eyelids, and the street lamps cast a dull orange on the sidewalk as Clarke walks up to the man on the bench. She takes a seat next to him, taking her liberty to do so accusingly and without asking for permission. 

He's tall, she can tell, even though they're both sitting. He's wearing a black jacket, black jeans and black curls peeking out from under a navy green beanie. His eyes are alert, unflappable. 

“Where's Lincoln?” Clarke asks not sure if that's bravery talking, or stupidity. But she feels a lot like having nothing to lose, so she doesn't really care. 

“Not here,” the man says, hands in his pockets, eyes upon the street. Seemingly unimpressed. 

“Will he be? Here, I mean.” 

“No.”

A frustrated huff of air escapes through Clarke’s nose, and the man gives her a sideways glance. 

“What's your name?” Clarke asks. A different approach might do the trick. 

The man's eyes find their way back to the street, continually shifting between left and right. He digs his chin into the collar of his jacket, and it leaves Clarke to feel both invisible and in the way all at once. It adds fuel to the angry flames already burning in the dark corners of Clarke's mind. 

“Listen, if you're here to babysit me, you might as well…” Clarke huffs again. Letting go. “Nevermind. Just… Tell Lincoln that I need to see him.”

Clarke gets up from the bench with more frustration than she came with. “It's urgent,” she says. She turns on her heel to walk back to Raven, but the man speaks, holding her in place. 

“Bellamy.”

Clarke looks at him. 

“My name,” he says. 

“I'm Clarke.”

“I know.”

In his eyes she finds all the things she doesn't want to be a part of: secrets, and promises of danger ahead, and her being a pawn in a game of chess she never agreed to partake in.

If her life is in danger she sure as hell isn't going to just sit back and do nothing. Starting tomorrow, after a much needed night of sleep, she'll be taking matters into own hands. That is, if Lincoln gets her message. If not, she’ll find another way.

“Have a good night, Bellamy,” she says, a fake politeness. 

“You too,” he says, repaying the kindness. 

Then she goes back to Raven. 

They camp on the couch with a random TV-show and a nearly cold dinner until bedtime is long passed. When Clarke starts frowning again, Raven brings her a new ice pack for her palm. There’s comfort to be found in the shadows of unspoken words and in the history of heartbreak the two friends have shared. This is how they know things will be alright.

“What do you think is in it?” Raven asks, looking at the wooden chest on the table. 

Clarke shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“Are you okay?”

“I have no idea.” 

Clarke leans into Raven on the couch. They both know Clarke isn't okay. Raven also knows that Clarke isn't ready to talk about it – it being Abby keeping the chest from Clarke for so long. So for now, Raven fulfills her best friend duties keeping Clarke afloat until she's ready to wade the waters again. 

 

°*°

 

It is way too late to still be awake, the wooden chest is safely placed under Clarke's bed, and she drinks a glass of water with one drop of the honey-colored oil Lexa gave her. It tastes nothing like honey, and the bitter aftertaste makes her mouth twist uncomfortably. 

It is with ease that Clarke falls asleep only minutes later, and when she wakes up the next morning, she concludes that the oil worked like a charm. 

Deep sleep. No nightmares. 

She feels awake, for a change. 

“Like a charm,” Clarke mutters, acid dripping from her vocal chords. “Laws of nature. Sure.” 

 

°*°

 

Clarke is on her way to work when someone grabs her elbow and guides her down an empty alley. Before Clarke gets to protest, she's spun around to face a familiar man with warm, brown eyes and a characteristic bald head. He's wearing a dark hoodie instead of his long black coat, to blend in during daylight, Clarke supposes. 

“Lincoln.” 

“Clarke.” Lincoln greets her with a tiny nod. He states, “you've been asking for me.”

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need to see her.”

“It doesn't work that way, Clarke. I can take a message to her, that's all.”

“It's all I'm asking.”

“Okay, then. What's your message?”

“Tell her she's not the only one with secrets, that she'll want to know mine, but I need something from her in return,” Clarke says, delivering the next words with a pointed look. “A secret for a secret.”

The truth is, Clarke doesn’t know if the chest is a secret Lexa wants to know, but Clarke’s gut tells her she needs Lexa to help break it open, and so Clarke isn’t ashamed to bluff.

Lincoln nods, messaged received. He scans the alley, Clarke's eyes stay on his. 

“And make sure she delivers her secret herself.”

Lincoln frowns. 

“I am done with this, Lincoln. I'm obviously important to her, and I think I at least deserve to know why I need a personal bodyguard lurking in the shadows everywhere I go. If she wants me to ignore it, I need to know what _it_ is.” 

Clarke hasn't blinked once. Lincoln scans their surroundings once again. He's the exact opposite of Anya, Clarke thinks. She feels safe in his presence. If someone were to twist her arm, she'd eventually admit her gratefulness. It makes it harder for her to hate Heda for the intrusion. 

“Anything else, Clarke?”

“No.”

“I'll let her know.”

“Good,” Clarke says. “Thank you.”

Satisfied with the outcome, she leaves Lincoln behind in the alley knowing full well he'll be following her to make sure she arrives safely at work. Visually, she turns her back on Lincoln – and in extension, Lexa, too – and the sensation of victory settles on her lips. It doesn't matter that she knows it won't last. For now, Clarke is in control. 

All things considered, this is a good day. If Clarke can't escape whatever is happening to her, well, at least it's happening on her terms now. 

As she enters the hospital, she's greeted by a glum looking Finn. 

“Can we talk?” He asks. 

“Uh, what about?”

“I, uhm, I saw you talking to that woman the other day and–”

“–What? You were spying on me?” Clarke frowns, anger fuelling the harsh tone of her voice. 

“No! No, it's not like that. I walked around the corner and saw…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes flying all over the place. 

“What did you see, Collins.” Not a question. 

“She–” He stops. He scans the room and then nudges his head towards the hall. “I'll walk you to the locker rooms.”

He starts walking. Clarke hesitates, but her curiosity gets the better of her. A bit of fear runs through her veins; she worries he saw something that'll put him in danger as well. If Clarke must be honest – really, there's no time for denial now – she worries more than anything else that Finn saw something that puts _her_ in danger. More than she supposedly already is. 

”Collins,” she says, delivered in a sigh full of impatience that Finn doesn't deserve. Or maybe he does. Clarke can't be bothered with diplomacy. Or reason. “I don't have much time. Make your point.”

“She's that shady patient you had, right? With the gunshot wound? You should be careful–”

“–It's not your concern, Collins.”

“Is it drugs?”

“What? No!” Clarke spits, shocked that Finn would even consider that a possibility. 

“Then what is it, Clarke? I saw–”

“–Collins! With all due respect, it's none of your business. Now, let it go,” Clarke says through gritted teeth. She picks up her pace and slides into the locker room, not once looking back, leaving Finn in the hallway.

Clarke leans her forehead against the cold metal of her locker. She squeezes her eyes shut and draws air in through her nose, then exhales it through her mouth. 

Calling this a good day was, apparently, pushing her luck. 

 

°*°

 

It's deja-vu when ten hours later Clarke breathes out her frustration against the metal locker. She shrugs off her second pair of scrubs of the day – the first being victim to a child's vomit attack – and puts on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. They smell of home, they bring her comfort. 

Clarke shuts her locker, ignores the phone text from her mother and leaves the hospital. Every intention of Clarke going straight home to bed is left behind as she catches Lincoln's eyes across the street. He nudges towards the nearest alley and Clarke gives him a subtle nod.

The sun hangs low above rooftops as Clarke catches up with Lincoln. 

“Please, tell me you have good news,” Clarke says. 

His answer is a silent smile. 

“You're taking me to her.” Clarke is hopeful. Lincoln doesn't answer, but his persistent smile is enough. 

“This way,” he says. He briefly rests a hand on Clarke's back, guiding her into another alley more narrow than the first. He scans his surroundings, checking his back an extra time. 

“Where are we going?” 

“It's not too far.”

With every turn, Lincoln does his job scanning the streets thoroughly. Clarke has lost any sense of direction, but it isn't lost on her that Lincoln keeps checking their rear as if someone might be following them. 

“I feel like we're walking in circles,” Clarke says. 

“Squares, maybe,” Lincoln says. The playful smile on his lips earns a chuckle from Clarke. “Don't worry. It's the safest route.”

They turn another corner, and the abandoned buildings – shattered once-was windows, wall paint faded in time, and cemented decay in all its glory – stay behind them as rubble becomes grass and trees stand before them like a wall, the sun slowly descending behind it. 

It's Heda that meets them halfway, not Lexa. Clarke can tell by the way she squares her shoulders and angles her chin. And if it wasn't enough, it's obvious by the way _Heda_ nods a greeting; subtle, but stoic. Heda is at work, not just taking an evening stroll. 

Heda is flanked by Anya and a man Clarke hasn't seen before. They're opposites by appearance. Anya is a slender woman with a stare that kills. And he's a large man with a voluminous beard and tattoos on one side of his face. He could snap her in two, Clarke thinks, except his eyes are too compassionate. 

While Clarke locks eyes with Heda, Lincoln takes a stand behind Clarke. 

“What is it, Lincoln?” Anya asks. 

Lincoln cocks his head, a subtle movement only meant for Anya, indicating something behind him. 

It happens so fast. Heda's eyes focus on a spot behind Clarke, she shouts something Clarke doesn't understand, and before Clarke knows it she's tucked away behind Lincoln and the man she doesn't know. 

Clarke’s view is restricted to what is visible between the two men’s shoulders. She sees Heda and Anya crouching as if ready to attack. She sees a blur of something, _someone_ approaching them. It sends shivers down her spine when she realizes who it is. 

“Get away from her!” Finn shouts as he runs towards them. 

“Stay back!” Heda roars. 

“Let her go!” Finn roars back. 

Anya steps in front of Heda. The threat is too close. She thrusts her hands forward, shooting a stream of air that hits Finn square in the chest. A sound much like thunder echoes against the buildings and it pierces Clarke's ears. 

“Anya, no!” Heda shouts.

But it's too late. Finn's body is flung backwards until it slams against a brick wall. 

“Nyko!” Heda calls for her healer as she runs to the lifeless body. 

“Finn,” Clarke gasps. The doctor in her is immediately awoken and she runs after Nyko. 

The healer and the doctor kneels next to Finn, Heda steps back to let them do their job. Nyko places his hands on his chest while Clarke checks his pulse below his jawline. Blood drips from his lips, his skin is already pale. 

“Nyko?” Heda asks. 

Nyko shakes his head solemnly. “Yu gonplei stei odon,” he whispers, his voice carrying his utmost respect for the unfortunate loss. Gently, he slides Finn's eyelids shut with a thumb and an index finger. 

“No!” Clarke roars. “Finn, don't you give up!” She places her hands on his chest to begin CPR. “You're an idiot, but you can't die! You hear me? You cannot die!”

The pumping movement of Clarke’s hands quickly shifts into a static press against his chest. The glow from her hand is powerful, almost blinding, and Clarke welcomes the burning in her hand as she forces all her strength into healing Finn. 

It's working. It feels right. 

Until it doesn't. 

“Clarke,” Heda says. “Clarke, stop. He is gone.”

“No!” 

Finn's body starts shaking, and it resonates with Clarke's body. The shivers are worse this time. The nausea is making her dizzy. She blinks to erase the white spots before her eyes. Why isn't this working? _Goddamnit!_

“Lexa,” Clarke calls, panic finding her voice for the first time. “I need your help.”

“It is too late, Clarke. We cannot bring back the dead.” Arms wrap around Clarke and pull her away, disconnecting her from Finn. Clarke fights back, but it's no use. She's too weak to even stand, relying fully on the arms that envelops her torso. 

“Clarke, calm down,” Lexa's voice whispers in her ear. 

“No!” Clarke cries, tears streaming down her face. 

“Clarke, we can do nothing else. We need to leave.” 

“It's my fault,” Clarke gasps, hyperventilating. 

“Nyko?” Heda calls. 

“Sha, Heda.” Nyko places his hands on each side of Clarke's head. He closes his eyes, and his hands start glowing. Merely seconds later, Heda holds an unconscious Clarke in her arms. 

“Who is he?” Anya asks. 

“A nurse from the hospital,” Heda says. “Harmless.”

“Why did you bring him here?” Anya stares at Lincoln who wide-eyed lifts his hands defensively. 

“I thought he was another assassin. Bringing him here – _alive_ – would give us the proof we–”

“–Enough!” Heda snaps. “Done is done!” She picks up Clarke, one arm under her knees, the other under her torso. “Lincoln, clean up this mess. Let me know when it is done.”

“Sha, Heda.” Lincoln bows his head, frozen in submission for an extra second or two. He knows Heda doesn't hold him responsible, but the guilt lingers in his blood nonetheless. 

Without another word, Heda starts walking. Anya and Nyko obediently follow her towards the forest. Another ten minutes and they'll reach Tondisi Hill. 

“Heda–”

“–Not now, Anya,” Heda says. 

In silence, they finish their hike to the top of the hill. The moon has begun it's ascension upon the clear evening sky. It won't be long until stars will appear; they're Lexa's absolute favorite part of this world, but she won't have time to appreciate them tonight. Her eyes fall from the still invisible stars to the sleeping woman in her arms. Only in her mind does she allow to mourn Clarke's loss. She knows all too well how it feels to not be powerful enough to save an innocent life. 

“Stay strong,” Lexa whispers to Clarke. She shifts Clarke's body into a standing position. Then she reaches up to press a thumb behind Clarke's ear. 

“Which mark?” Anya asks. 

“Mine,” Heda says, feeling the cogwheel form underneath her thumb. 

“Is that a good idea?” 

“I see no other choice. I will take her to my home. For now, do not speak of it to anyone.”

“Sha, Heda,” Anya and Nyko says in unison. 

“Anya, brief Indra. I will meet you at the tower shortly. Nyko, Clarke will be sick when she wakes up. She will need remedies to ease the symptoms.”

“Sha, Heda.”

Heda picks up Clarke again and steps into the field between the four stone obelisks. The mark behind her ear tingles as the portal carries them through time and space. 

There are two portals on Heda's land. One is hidden from unwelcome souls; it is placed inside The Sacred Library. The other is situated behind Polis Tower on a hill similar in appearance and name to Tondisi Hill. 

The Sacred Library is in no way connected to where Heda is going. Besides, she can't risk Titus seeing Clarke – not yet. Thus, Heda keeps her head low as she hurries from the portal, down the back of the hill and into the forest praying that she has slipped through unnoticed. 

The unconscious woman in her arms is getting heavy, she has been for a while, and Lexa grits her teeth – Heda's mask was dropped a while back – as she walks down the path rarely trod by others than herself. Just around that tree, she tells herself. Almost there. 

The disguising spell around Lexa's home makes it uncharted land for anyone who doesn't wear Heda's mark. As Lexa steps forward, penetrating the shield, the steep hillside between grand trees morphs into a home. Before her is a small pit of stones laid out in a circle, a pile of smooth, oval stones in the center, and a collection of mismatched tree stubs scattered around the pit. Three stone steps lead down to a door, and Lexa wrestles it open with her elbow. She pushes the door shut with a foot and carries Clarke to her bedroom. 

Carefully, Lexa places Clarke on her bed. Her arms are relieved, but her heart is heavy. As she brushes Clarke's hair away from her eyes and behind her ear, she tells herself it's because she needs to double-check that Heda's mark is well hidden. 

Lexa sighs. 

Shakes her head. 

She presses two fingertips against Clarke's palm remembering a time when her own wrist burned this much. It started the day the previous Heda died – the day the mark chose her as the successor. This day today, Lexa still isn't sure if the burning subsided with time, or if it's something she simply got used to. A burden to bear, a weight to familiarize with. 

Clarke looks peaceful in her sleep, Lexa thinks. 

If only Clarke knew of the burden that lies on her shoulders.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys.  
> It's been a week so I owe you the next chapter. I think you're all excited for Clarke to wake up in Heda's world, right?  
> Before I let you go to read this chapter I want to briefly mention that chapter 7 and 8 was supposed to be just one chapter, but the word count eventually had me split it in two. I hope it makes sense.
> 
> As for now, enjoy Clarke's first moments in Heda's word :)  
> ~anonbeme

# VII

 

 

They rise above her like monstrous mountains threatening to bury her in an avalanche. She's been here before in another dream much like this one. Glasslike flames lick angrily at the dark sky, and Clarke is fully aware that she does not want to be here.

Two rubies blink. 

The deep rumble builds into a growl. 

Clarke shivers. Cold sweat clings to her skin. She wants to take a step back, but no matter how hard she tries, no matter how much force she puts into it, she can't. She's stuck. Her feet are rooted to the ground beneath her. 

Clarke clenches her burning hand into a fist, squeezing it as hard as she can. 

A scream builds in her lungs and she doesn't know if it's anger or fear, but it's there, and it's eating her up. 

Another growl. 

Two arms sling around Clarke's torso, and they pull her backwards until the ground releases its grip on her feet. 

“Clarke, calm down,” a soft voice whispers, and all Clarke sees are emeralds twinkling in the night sky. 

“We cannot bring back the dead,” the voice says. 

Clarke blinks, and emeralds are replaced by Finn's cold, lifeless eyes staring at her. “This is all your fault,” his bloodstained lips say. 

The arms are no longer holding her. Instead, she finds herself free falling, surging through the air. There's no way to tell which way is up and which is down, and Clarke fumbles desperately for something to hold onto, but there isn't any. 

Nothingness. 

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut expecting to smash against the ground any second now. 

Any second now...

The ground is soft beneath her. As a kid, Clarke always wondered what it would feel like taking a nap on a cloud. This could be a cloud; it's the kind of soft Clarke always imagined one to be – fluffy and… _Soft_.

Maybe Clarke is dead. 

No. 

It hurts too much to be death, Clarke thinks. There's a shooting pain in her hand, and there’s a burning ache in her muscles as she tries to move a leg, a foot, or just a toe, even. 

She can't tell if she's successful. 

Focusing all her energy on just one thing, she tries opening her eyes. They flutter open for just a fragment of time, enough to realize she's in a room she doesn't recognize. A dimly lit room. A lot of wood. A cottage, maybe? The world is spinning, so Clarke squeezes her eyes shut to stay in place, hoping her hands are holding on tight. 

Then she’s out. 

 

°*°

 

On the ninth floor of Polis Tower, Heda’s personal bodyguard briefs Heda’s second in command about the events that took place when Heda went to meet Clarke.

“That is unfortunate,” Indra says, her voice every bit the professionalism such a situation demands, free from any sort of accusation.

“She’s angry with me.”

“You killed an innocent man, Anya.”

“I thought he was another assassin. I couldn’t risk it. I made that mistake the first time, Indra.”

“I understand, Anya. I would have done the same. But I understand Heda also.” Indra walks out onto the balcony, running her eyes along the dark-blue horizon. “She does not want to see innocent people die, and she works hard to keep her land a secret from the skai people. You jeopardized that.”

Anya clenches her jaw, she squeezes the bridge of her nose with thumb and index finger as she walks to take a stand next to Indra. “I know,” Anya sighs.

“Has it been taken care of?”

“Lincoln will report back when it’s done.”

“Good.”

Anya walks back inside. She paces the floor, it shimmers a fiery red below her feet. 

The doors are pushed open with unusual force, and Heda storms in not stopping until she’s face to face with Anya. Their eyes are locked in a silent discussion. No one blinks, no one breathes. All the while, Indra watches them with lazy concern – it's not the first time Anya elicits this response from Heda, it won't be the last. 

“It never happens again.” Heda’s voice holds that edge, the calm before the storm kind of edge, the one that let Anya knows she’d have gotten a lot more than just a reprimand if she wasn’t Anya. 

“Sha, Heda,” Anya says, her voice colored with an apology she wholeheartedly believes in. 

“Indra.” Heda looks towards the approaching woman. “Dr. Griffin is safe in my home. For now. If anyone asks about her, even Titus, you know nothing.”

“Of course.” Indra nods. 

“What's the plan?” Anya asks. When Heda raises an eyebrow, Anya elaborates. “I don't expect her to want to stay.”

“No,” Heda sighs. “I have to bargain with her.”

“With what?” Anya frowns. 

“As little as possible,” Heda says looking through the open balcony doors, out onto the landscape that rolls from the foot of the tower towards the horizon. She walks onto the balcony, leaning against the railing. 

“A secret for a secret,” Anya scoffs, still inside. “Was that the phrase?”

“I believe it was,” Heda says, a subtle smile dancing at the corner of her lips. 

“I wish you good luck,” Anya says, smirking behind Heda's back. 

Heda sighs. 

 

°*°

 

The world is presented to Clarke rather violently as her eyes spring open, wide, terrified. Her body is trembling, uncomfortably sweating. The nausea is unbearable and Clarke finds herself bending halfway off the bed to vomit on the floor, the bile burning in her throat. 

Wait, a bed? 

Still not knowing where she is, Clarke wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She steadies herself in an upright position, both hands placed firmly at her sides. The world is still spinning, her head is throbbing. 

Through squinting eyes she studies her surroundings. She's seated on a bed – kingsize, at least – with soft blankets and plenty of pillows. The room is… Not big, but it feels majestic with the beautifully carved wooden beams. In every corner of the room hangs from the ceiling a metal chain. It holds a small metal cage which holds an oval stone. Clarke blinks, not entirely trusting her own eyes. The oval stones are _floating_ , and off them radiates a glow which casts a soft light around the room. 

Clarke's eyes roam the ceiling and the walls: no light switch, no lamps. No windows. She wonders if she's a prisoner, but no prisoner has ever been accommodated with such luxury – as far as Clarke knows. 

There's nothing more she wants than to swing her legs over the edge of the bed and walk out that door, but gravity is pulling at her again, and she finds herself sinking back into the softness of this bed, her eyes squeezing shut. 

Clarke scoffs internally. It's ridiculous. Oval stones are _floating_ , defying gravity, and here she is, useless against its pull. 

“Oh, you are awake.” A male voice Clarke doesn't recognize enters the room. 

_Not really_ , Clarke wants to say, but she's too weak. She wants to apologize for vomiting on the floor, and she wants to yell at someone for doing this to her – whatever this is. 

She can't. 

“Wha…” Clarke tries, but fails. 

“Hello, Clarke. My name is Nyko and I am a healer. Heda sent me to make sure you felt as comfortable as possible. I promise, you will feel better soon.” 

There's a dip in the mattress, and something cold and damp is pressed against Clarke's forehead. 

“I expect you are in a lot of pain, you are nauseated. I will ease it as best I can. And do not worry about the vomit, I will clean it up.”

Nyko’s voice is a deep rumble, comforting. His big hands press gently against the side of her head, she feels the tingle and hears his heartbeat. It's soothing. It calms her down. The pain is less bearable and Clarke feels strong enough to try speaking again. 

“Where am I?”

“You are in Heda's home.”

At that, Clark’s eyes spring open. She immediately recognizes Nyko as the man that stood alongside Lexa and Anya when… Oh no! No, no no! It’s coming back to her now. Lincoln had brought her to Lexa, Finn had followed them, and why the _hell_ would he do such a thing. And then Anya had… It wasn’t a dream? It _has_ to be dream. If it isn’t, it means…

Clarke feels it now. The sorrow. The rage. The failure. The exhaustion. 

“Rest up, Clarke. It will be a while before you are ready to get up.” Nyko stands again, then points to the bedside table – a cup of water and a small bottle with honey-colored oil. “Heda tells me you are already familiar with the dreamcatcher. I made it ready for you.”

Nyko bows, then opens the door. “I will check on you again soon. Sleep now.” 

The thud of Nyko closing the door behind him brings Clarke back. She stares at the door, takes an involuntary deep breath. She’s out in the open sea, sinking, and she has no life vest. 

She closes her eyes.

Swallows hard.

She gulps down the water with the bitter aftertaste and grimaces.

Then she lies back down, and the world becomes black once again. 

 

°*°

 

With orange swirls on the bright sky above her, and a symphony of birdsong in her ears, Lexa trudges down the path that will lead her home. 

The last time she walked this road, she carried Clarke in her arms. The weight of the doctor’s unconscious body was nothing compared to the burden of Heda's duty. 

Lexa allows herself to wonder if Clarke is awake; if she's okay. If Clarke patiently waits for her to come back, or if she's giving Nyko a hard time wanting to leave. She wonders if Nyko has had to restrain her. She hopes not; it'll only make this situation a lot worse. 

Then Lexa wills herself to remember that she's doing this for her people. 

“Heda,” Nyko greets her. 

As Lexa lifts her head, she finds Nyko seated on a tree stub. He's heating something over the fire pit. Based on the smell that meets Lexa’s nose she reckons it's Nyko’s special herbal brew. Amongst the ingredients – many of which only Nyko knows the real effect of – it contains flameberries: those orange berries that only grow wild in the desert. They're Lexa's favorite snack, juicy and sweet, warm against her tongue.

This particular brew is for nausea. 

For Clarke. 

A part of Lexa wishes she could take away Clarke's pain. She pushes that part away as she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin to meet Nyko.

“Nyko. How are you?”

“It is a lovely sky we have been gifted with,” Nyko says, his gentle smile breaking into a low, rumbling chuckle. 

“It is,” Lexa says, taking a seat next to Nyko. “And Clarke?”

Nyko’s smile falters. He grabs the wooden spoon, stirs his brew around a few times, then knocks the spoon against the cauldron shaking any excess liquid off. While Heda would tell him to stop wasting her time, Lexa waits patiently for Nyko to respond. The truth is, she’s not ready to hear the verdict. She might not ever be. 

“Pain is minimal, nausea too.” Nyko pauses. 

“Is she awake?”

“Yes.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“She is… Headstrong, Heda. She refuses to eat.”

“Is she not hungry?”

“I believe she is, but…” Nyko searches for the right words, but Heda finishes the sentence for him.

“She is punishing me.”

Nyko sighs. Lexa recognizes the tone. He, too, sees Clarke's reluctance to do what's best for her health as failure. What Nyko doesn't know is it's Lexa's fault that Clarke is in this situation to begin with. It's Heda's secrets and Heda's duties – not Nyko’s ability as a healer. 

“How much does she remember?” Lexa asks. 

“I believe, everything, Heda.”

Lexa nods, her eyes fall to the dirt below her feet. “Thank you, Nyko. I will go see her.” 

It takes Lexa more strength than she cares to admit to get up from her seat. 

“Heda?”

“Yes, Nyko?” Lexa stops just before her front door looking at Nyko. 

“Take this to her.” Nyko pours some of his brew into a wooden cup and gives it to Lexa.

“Thank you, Nyko.” Lexa nods respectfully, Nyko reciprocates. 

Once inside, Lexa lingers by the door, the cup warm in her hand. Her eyes fall upon the bowl in the corner of her tiny living room – Nyko has stocked her up on flameberries. She picks up one, rolling it between thumb and index finger before she throws it in the air and catches it with her mouth. She chews once, letting the warm juice trickle onto her tongue. It makes Lexa smile, briefly. She collects a handful of flameberries in a green leaf the size of a hand, and with a sigh she walks towards her bedroom. 

Before pushing open the door, Lexa takes a deep breath. It's irrational to have faced many life threatening obstacles with a brave heart, and then stand before her own bedroom door having to pep talk herself into facing Clarke. One must prepare for the worst if one wants to survive. Nothing could’ve prepared Lexa for the sight that meets her when the door swings open. 

Clarke sits cross-legged on the bed, the blankets underneath her still untouched, still unused. Her elbows are resting on her knees, her hands firmly knotted into her hair. 

Like she's hanging on for dear life. 

When Clarke's hands release her hair and she lifts her head to meet Lexa's gaze, Lexa's stomach drops. And Lexa sees it all: the despair, the struggle, the pain, the hatred. The accusations. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says. “How are you?”

No answer. Only eyes like thunderstorms.

“Nyko gave me this to give you,” Lexa holds up the wooden cup. Hesitantly, she walks to the bedside to place it on the table next to the food Clarke refuses to eat. 

“For the nausea. And these are flameberries. My f... They taste good.” Lexa places the berries next to the cup and steps back, her restless hands find purpose as they link together behind her back. 

Lexa thinks perhaps whirlpools are more accurate to explain what she sees in Clarke's eyes. The blue color is more similar to the endless ocean; and where thunderstorms rage on towards you, whirlpools suck you in, mercilessly. 

“You have to eat, Clarke, to restore the balance.”

“Not before you tell me what I'm doing here,” Clarke says, the edge of her voice sharp enough to cut through Lexa's heart. 

“This is the only place to keep you safe.”

“From _what_ , Lexa? What is it I'm supposedly running from? You can't keep me here forever.”

“I am not–” Lexa stops, realizing that it _is_ exactly what she's doing – keeping her here against her will. Clenching her jaw, Lexa wills herself to become Heda once more. “I cannot tell you everything, but I want to give you something.”

Clarke scoffs soundly, averting her eyes. 

“Eat. Drink. Then come see me. I will be outside when you are ready. Then we will talk.”

When there's no reaction from Clarke, Lexa goes to leave the room. A hand on the door, Lexa looks at Clarke and says, “I met your father once. He was a great man.”

Silently, she slips out of the room. As the door closes shut behind her, she sighs, shakes her head. Anya was right to wish her good luck, this is going to be a lot harder than she’d anticipated.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> Alright. Chapter 8 is here. Are you ready?  
> Stubborn Clarke finally loosens up. A little bit ;) 
> 
> I hope you like it <3  
> I appreciate all your nice comments, and kudos and all that. I'm still hyped that you guys want to read a clexa magic AU.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# VIII

 

 

_“I met your father once,” Lexa says, “he was a great man.”_

The second the door closes shut, Clarke gasps, pulling in air she didn't realize she needed. A tear trickles down her cheek. 

Clarke wishes Lexa would've stayed, but only so that Clarke herself could storm out the room slamming that door behind her. 

It's childish, yes, but it's what she's got. It’s like the time she was seventeen and came home drunk in the middle of the night to her mom yelling at her for being irresponsible. It was around the first anniversary of her dad's death and all Clarke needed was somebody to comfort her. She needed a mom, but Clarke felt like she'd lost her, too, so she went to the party to let her friends cheer her up instead. She was drunk and miserable when she came home, and when her mom yelled at her she ran to her room and slammed the door knowing her mom wouldn't follow her; she was right and it was satisfying until she felt alone again in her fatherless home. 

It's different with Lexa. 

Clarke hates Lexa’s apologetic eyes. The food. The medical care. This stupid, soft bed. It makes it a lot harder to hate _her_ , and Clarke needs something – someone – to blame for all the chaos in her mind. 

Tears sting her cheeks, so Clarke wipes them with the back of a hand willing herself to gain back control – or at least try. 

As her eyes fall upon the table next to the bed, Clarke's stomach growls. Traitorously. Pleading. She wants to ignore it – she doesn't want Lexa's charity – but the orange berries on the leaf remind her of one of her dad's stories. She always thought flameberries were a product of his wild imagination. 

She picks one.

It's about the size of a blueberry, the skin is taut, and Clarke adds a gentle pressure with thumb and index finger – not enough to burst it, but enough to feel the heat from the little fruit pulsate against her fingertips. 

Clarke places the berry on her tongue; it's cool against tastebuds. She squishes it against the roof of her mouth and feels the warm liquid leak from the torn skin onto her tongue. The taste is sweet – nothing compares. 

Soft reminiscent eyes turn morose as Clarke swallows the berry. She tries to ignore the invading thoughts that the great man Lexa had met was her dad – someone Clarke never truly knew, it seems. 

Clarke drinks the content of the wooden cup. It tickles her gag reflex – even with the aftertaste of flameberries – and Clarke wonders how this is supposed to help with the nausea. But then she feels it; the warmth pulsating like embers in her gut. 

It makes her stomach growl louder, settling like unmistakable hunger that should've been satiated a long time ago. 

That loaf of bread with cheese that Nyko brought in earlier is taunting her. If she must be honest, it has been for a while now. It smells deliciously and looks like the kind of cheese that melts on your tongue. Sighing, she reaches for the plate. 

It's a wooden plate. Everything is wood: cups, plates, bed frame, table, floor, walls, ceiling. Beautiful wood – a shiny reddish kind just like the wooden chest hidden under her bed at home. It should've been Clarke's first clue when she woke up the first time. Her dad told her about trikru – the people of the forest – and how they lived amongst the trees, how wood was the main source of their crafted products. 

As Clarke bites into the bread, she wonders if maybe her dad was a trikru; he liked to build things from wood. Well, he liked to build things in general. Mostly wood and electronics. The latter was something Raven shared with him; whenever they'd talk about circuit boards and wires and whatnot, Clarke would zone out. “When you build things, the possibilities are endless,” he'd say, and Raven had nodded in agreement as if he spoke the most true of all truths. Clarke had rolled her eyes at them and smiled because she loved that her dad was a kind of a dad to Raven, too. 

It's been a long time since Clarke allowed herself to reminisce her dad. Even after ten years Clarke still isn't used to the onslaught of happy memories and the inevitable yearning of a reality she'll never know again. 

Clarke wipes another wave of tears off her cheeks. She places the plate back onto the small table. With the leaf full of flameberries in her hand, she rises to leave the room. 

The door handle is of skillfully crafted wood, smooth curves and outstanding detail carved into it. Clarke pulls the door open and walks into what she assumes is the living room. From floor to ceiling, there's wood everywhere – still no windows. In the center of the room is a couch, a once was bulky trunk now carved to accommodate at least three seated people, the hard surface softened by blankets upon blankets. There's a coffee table, and where most people – well, people from Clarke's world, at least – would put a TV screen, there's a fireplace, only it's not stocked with timber, but with oval stones each one the length of a foot. On each side of the fireplace are floor to ceiling wooden shelves with a small selection of wooden and stone figures as well as a handful of books – Clarke wonders which world they're from. The corner of the room resembles a kitchen – maybe – with a counter with built-in cabinets against the wall. Again, wood. This room, too, is lit up by another set of floating stones in metal cages.

There are two doors in addition to the one Clarke just passed through. One in each end of the room. Clarke studies the one next to the kitchen; it's more sturdy, possibly the main door, so that's the one she picks. 

Clarke eats another flameberry. 

A sigh of frustration escapes her lips as she walks towards the door. Whatever is on the other side, she's not ready to face it. Probably never will be. She just wants to go home, but to go home means walking out that door first. 

The first thing that meets Clarke as she steps outside is the colorful sky. The orange is _so deep_ that Clarke almost forgets to breathe. She walks up the three stone steps, eyes wide as she takes in her surroundings. 

Another tale of her dad's: Heda's land has one sun – no moon, no stars. It circles the land on the horizontal axis, and it paints the sky with the colors it soaks up as it passes the great volcano, the gushing winds, the deep ocean and the endless desert – and all the places in between. Clarke has more than one of her own finger paint interpretations of this phenomena hanging on her bedroom walls at her mom's house. Not even her wildest imagination did it justice, though. What she's witnessing right now is spectacular nonetheless.

“Clarke,” someone calls, and Clarke spins around to find Lexa sitting cross-legged on top of a tiny hill – on top of her home. Well, that explains the lack of windows. 

“You live in a hobbit home?” Clarke asks, but wishes she could take it back. Lexa doesn't deserve Clarke's attention. 

“Your father said the same thing,” Lexa says, a softness tugging at the corners of her lips.

Clarke frowns and it quells Lexa's smile. 

“Join me. The steps are over there,” Lexa says, pointing to Clarke's left. 

As Clarke walks around the hill and up the steps – flat stones up the hillside – she realizes she's curious to learn what Lexa knows about her dad. It makes her angry, with herself, which is enough to remind her that she hates Lexa. In a grumpy manner, Clarke takes a seat next to Lexa, placing the leaf with the flameberries on the ground in front of her, then folds her hands in her lap. Clarke looks at Lexa – she doesn't want to, but it's like she has no choice. Those stupid, emerald eyes... Clarke forces her gaze to find whatever Lexa is looking at. 

A cylinder shaped tower stands tall against the flamboyant sky. Heda's home, Clarke recalls. She wonders why Lexa would need this hobbit home, then. 

“What do you want to know?” Lexa asks. 

“Everything.”

“I do not know everything.” 

Clarke fights the urge to roll her eyes. She decides to start easy. “Why do I keep getting sick?”

Lexa looks at her, then. “It has happened before?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, not really in the mood to elaborate. 

Lexa nods thoughtfully before looking back at the tower. “Your energy is finite. Use it and you must recharge. You will get sick if you try to use more than you have. If you are not careful, you can harm yourself.”

“Is that why I could heal you and not Finn?” Clarke’s gaze drops to her hands in her lap, feeling the guilt grow in her gut. 

“No. I told you, Clarke. We cannot bring back the dead.”

Clarke draws in a shaky breath, forcing the image of a lifeless Finn out of her mind. 

“How do I… recharge?” 

“Sleep and food. But if you know your limit you will never have to recharge. We teach our young ones how to control their energy. Everyone is different, has different potential. Some become great warriors like Anya, or great healers like Nyko, or great at something else. Some will never exceed the basics. It is important to learn to accept the limitation of the energy you have been granted, or else you will keep getting sick and you will never find your balance.”

“I don't want it.” Clarke says, frowning at her palm. 

“You cannot return it. It chose you for a reason,” Lexa says, her eyes dropping to her own wrist. 

“You know what it means, don't you? The mark?”

Lexa shakes her head, a thoughtful crease between her eyes. “No. I have a theory, but I cannot share it before I know for sure. It–”

Clarke interrupts her with a frustrated sigh. 

“Clarke. Despite what you think, this is not about you. I received my mark the day the previous Heda died. You received yours the day you healed me. This is bigger than the both of us.” Lexa draws in a sharp breath, wide eyes quickly finding back to the tower on the horizon. 

The clenching of the jaw is a Heda thing, Clarke deduces. _Lexa_ said too much and _Heda_ is furious, and Clarke finds the knowledge very convenient – or could potentially become it – so she stores it in her mind for later purpose. 

“Why can't people see it?”

“It does not want to be seen,” Lexa says with such seriousness that Clarke almost laughs. 

Almost.

Lexa still doesn't deserve Clarke's attention. 

“Okay, forget I asked,” Clarke says. “Tell me what you _can_ tell me.”

As Clarke watches Lexa consider her next words, Clarke realizes for the first time that there's birdsong around them. Her eyes wander to the tree branches above her head, but she doesn't see any birds. 

“They do not want to be seen either,” Lexa says, her eyes a calm green when Clarke looks at her. 

“Was my dad from here?” Clarke says, out of the blue, surprising herself. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, frowning. “You did not know?”

Clarke shakes her head. 

“He was a great carpenter. He could build things no one else could. Beautiful things. Special things. He was a well-respected man on these lands,” Lexa says, motioning with one hand towards the horizon. Then she looks at Clarke. “He fell in love with your world. First with the unexplored opportunities, then with your mother and lastly with you. He decided to stay.”

“When did you meet him?” Clarke asks, almost a whisper.

“Two weeks before his death,” Lexa says, wistful eyes holding onto Clarke's. “Heda brought him to meet me. He called this a hobbit home – like you – and I told him I did not know what that was. He said he would bring me a book about it the next time.”

“The hobbit,” Clarke says. “His favorite book.”

“I never saw him again,” Lexa says, carefully watching Clarke. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Clarke swallows the knot in her throat, turning her wet eyes away from Lexa's. It’s not pity, but respect; Clarke knows. Still, it hits her hard. A part of her wants to know why her dad went to visit Lexa, the rest of her wishes Lexa hadn't told her. 

Clarke picks up a flameberry. She squishes it with a thumb against her palm; the liquid is cold against her skin where the mark is. 

“When can I go home?” Clarke says, wiping her hand in the grass. 

“I want to make you an offer,” Lexa says, and Clarke thinks she recognizes the mask of Heda. “I want you to stay a little longer. Until I am sure it is safe for you to return home.”

“How long are we talking?”

“I do not know.”

“No.”

“In return,” Lexa says, ignoring Clarke's dismissal. “I will teach you to control your energy. I will have Nyko teach you the ways of a healer, too, if you want.”

It's an easy decision, one Clarke pretends to mull over considerably longer than she needs to. No matter how much Clarke wants her life back – no mark, no magic – she acknowledges that it’s naive, foolish even, to expect it to happen. At least this way she'll get something out of it.

Well played, Heda, well played. 

“One condition. No, two.”

“Go on.”

“If at some point I want to leave, you'll allow it.”

“Of course.” Lexa nods once. “And the other condition?”

“I won't hide. I will keep the mark a secret and whatever else you need me to stay silent about, but I _will not_ hide. I want to walk around like everyone else. No bodyguards.”

“Clarke–”

“–Save it. Those are my conditions. Take it or leave it.”

“Deal,” Lexa says, holding out her hand. Clarke lifts her own to meet Lexa in a handshake, but is surprised to find Lexa's hand grasp around her underarm. Clarke gets the idea and grasps around Lexa's arm too. The cotton-like fabric of Lexa's long-sleeved shirt is soft against Clarke's hand. A shame, Clarke thinks, that Lexa isn't wearing her black long coat right now; she’s still curious to find out what it feels like against her skin. 

“Is this a secret handshake?” Clarke asks, amusement on her lips. 

“Something like that,” Lexa smiles. 

Letting go of Lexa's arm, Clarke picks up the leaf with the delicious berries and gets back up on her feet. “I'm still mad at you,” Clarke calls over her shoulder as she walks down the stone steps. 

“I know,” Lexa whispers against the wind, a hint of a sigh. 

“Lexa?” Clarke stands before the main door and looks up at the still cross-legged woman. When Lexa looks back down, Clarke holds up her phone that isn't working on Heda's land. “Since you don't want me to leave, I need you to make sure that Raven – my roommate – knows I'm safe, and that they know I won't be coming in to work at the hospital.”

“Of course,” Lexa nods.

Before Clarke can open the door, Lexa says, “Lincoln spoke of something you wanted to share with me. A secret?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, “but I believe you have yet to share a secret of your own. I'm going back inside to _recharge_. You know where to find me.”

As Clarke closes the door behind her, she feels a calm in her heart she hasn't felt in a long time – maybe not since her dad died. She still feels sick, not overwhelmingly so, but she could do with some sleep. For a second, she considers taking a spot on Lexa's couch instead of the bed – it feels too intimate to sleep where Lexa sleeps – but her body craves the comfortable softness, so she complies. She's relieved to find that sleep comes easy this time, even without the need of the dreamcatcher.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! 
> 
> Words are failing me today. So in short: I'm introducing a new character in this chapter, an original one.  
> And... I'm still very much humbled by the love you all have for this world of mine <3
> 
> Also, if you have any questions about the story and/or the world I've built, just go ahead and throw them at me. Here, tumblr or twitter :)
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# IX

 

 

“You're so stupid, Clarke,” Clarke mutters to herself as she rushes out of Lexa's bedroom and – realizing the living room is empty – barges outside to ask Lexa that one thing she didn't ask her earlier. Why? Because her idiotic, stubborn ass decided it was done talking for the time being. It was meant to punish Lexa, not herself. Karma is a fickle bitch, oh yes.

With a bladder painfully about to burst, Clarke's lungs involuntarily hyperventilating, she stops halfway up the stone steps outside Lexa's home. 

“Oh,” Clarke says. 

“Hello Clarke. What can I do for you?” Nyko sits on a tree stub looking over his shoulder at Clarke. 

“Uhm, is there a…” Clarke swings one hand downwards in front of her crotch as if it explains everything.

Nyko looks puzzled, confusion pulling his eyebrows upwards.

“A toilet?” Clarke says, desperately squeezing her thighs together. 

“Oh, yes. One of the wonders your world taught us. It is the door in the back,” Nyko says, pointing at the main door. 

“Thank you,” Clarke breathes, as she's already halfway back inside. 

She sprints past the couch and flings the door open. She unbuttons and pulls down her jeans in record time, plopping down on the toilet seat before the door slams shut. With closed eyes, relieved that she made it in time, Clarke thinks that the sound of someone urinating has never echoed so beautifully before. 

Instinctively, Clarke reaches for the toilet paper to her left but is met with a bare wall. Upon opening her eyes, she sees it, the lack of toilet paper. She wonders if Nyko will hear her if she were to call for him, and if he'll laugh at her for doing so. Her eyes explore the room. It's small – a big groom closet kind of small. The interior is minimal: just one metal cage with a glowy floating stone, the toilet Clarke sits on and a small water basin. In the corner behind her hangs a tiny wooden bucket. In it Clarke finds leaves of many colors, soft fuzzy leaves about the size of a hand. 

Surely, it's not… 

… but there's literally nothing else here. Clarke supposes it makes sense. There’s no need for toilet paper if these leaves do the trick. 

Biting her lip thoughtfully, Clarke picks an orange leaf from the bucket – because it’s pretty. “Okay, here we go,” Clarke mumbles. She reaches down to wipe herself surprised to find that it feels super soft like those tissues with balm she buys when she has the sniffles. She panics as she lets the leaf drop into the toilet. Is there even a way to flush this thing? Was she not meant to drop the leaf into the toilet? She stands up, pulls up her jeans as she examines the toilet. It doesn’t look like porcelain. Maybe solid black glass. The toilet seat is made of dark wood. There’s no button to push, but there’s a chain hanging from the ceiling with a handle. 

Clarke shrugs. Then she pulls the handle.

It flushes.

“Phew,” Clarke breathes.

She spins around to face the next obstacle. There is no faucet; just a granite looking stone basin stuck to the wall. It’s two thirds filled with water, and Clarke wonders how little they know about basic hygiene, that is, until she dips her hands into the liquid. It's more dense than water, slightly. She feels it immediately: the tingling. 

Sterilizing water, maybe? Oh, that’s clever. And it evaporates off her hands within seconds. No need to dry her hands. Something like this would be worth gold at the hospital.

As she returns to join Nyko outside she wonders if she'll be able to take a shower somewhere. She even goes as far as to wonder where she’ll be staying; she doesn’t want to stay in Lexa’s home, in fact, she wants to stay far away from Lexa. She should’ve made that her third condition.

“How are you feeling, Clarke?” Nyko pats the tree stub next to him.

“Better,” Clarke says, taking a seat.

“Pain? Nausea?”

“No.”

“How is the hand?”

Clarke stretches her fingers and then curls them into a fist. “I think I’m getting used to it.”

Nyko nods, understanding. ”Hungry?”

“I suppose,” Clarke says, then takes a deep breath, the fresh air expanding her lungs. 

Nyko picks up two wooden bowls from the ground next to him. “Hold these,” he says, and Clarke takes one in each hand. Nyko moves forward an inch on his tree stub and lifts the lid off the cauldron. 

When the steam rises and hits Clarke's nostrils – so deliciously it smells – Clarke realizes Nyko has been cooking over the fire pit. But… Without a fire. 

“How do the stones work?” Clarke motions with one bowl-holding hand towards the base of the fire pit. 

“They are heat stones. They are like the coal from your world except they do not burn out,” Nyko says, picking up a ladle. “Come, now.”

Clarke holds out the two bowls into which Nyko pours what Clarke assumes to be soup, rich on colorful slices of vegetables and maybe chunks of what could be meat, chicken maybe. 

“Do you… ignite them?”

“Yes. I expect Heda to teach you soon enough,” Nyko says as he puts the lid back on the cauldron and hands Clarke a small spoon. 

“And the floating ones inside?” Clarke asks, exchanging Nyko’s bowl of soup for the spoon. 

“Aah… Light stones,” Nyko chuckles. “They glow to light up the room, like the lamp in your world. They do not float on their own. The metal box creates a field where gravity does not exist.”

“Mh,” Clarke hums, deep in thought. She lifts a spoonful of soup and something that looks like a piece of carrot to her mouth; it could be anything, really, Clarke is done assuming things to be like at home. It's warm and nice on her tongue and that orange thing is definitely not carrot, but much better, a bit spicy, even. She slurps another spoonful, this time humming out of appreciation for this savory meal. 

“Eat, Clarke. I will take you to Heda after,” Nyko says. 

Clarke ignores the mentioning of Lexa like a pro as she shovels in soup with a content smile on her lips until her bowl is empty. Nyko offers seconds and Clarke is eager to accept. 

 

°*°

 

It is by all means a surreal experience walking onto the main road of Heda's land – the road that she knows will lead her to the tower, not just because she sees it on the horizon. Clarke has been here before. In her childhood dreams. Her dad would describe the cobble-like stones that make up this important road. She knows it's the main road because the stones beneath her feet shimmer under the sun – just the tiniest bit, making it seem like it continually changes color underneath her feet. Somehow, Clarke had imagined it differently – wider, bigger stones, more vibrant – but it's definitely the same. 

The tower grows taller by every step, and Clarke stops in her tracks gaping at what’s coming up on her left. 

“Do you need a break?” Nyko asks in his calm voice of a caretaker. 

Clarke shakes her head softly, not quite present. “Is that Tondisi Hill?” Her dad never told her about it, but he took her there once as a kid, well, the hill in Polis City, at least. 

“Yes,” Nyko says. “Heda will teach you of its meaning.”

Clarke is getting impatient with all these things she depends on Lexa to teach her about. Pushing the frustration aside, she falls back into step next to Nyko. Together they close the distance to Polis Tower. 

“We’re going to the top floor,” Nyko says as he begins the climb of what looks like a series of endless stairs. 

“No elevator?” Clarke asks and is given an understanding smile in return. 

Nine floors. It could be worse, Clarke thinks, as she climbs the last set of stairs. Reaching the platform she bends forward, hands on knees, catching her breath. She feels Nyko’s hand resting between her shoulder blades; his rumbling chuckle mingles with the tingling sensation on her skin. Her breath catches within seconds, and that's another trick she decides she'll have to learn. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says. 

“You are welcome,” Nyko smiles. Then he steps forward to knock on a door Clarke is almost certain she didn't see two seconds ago. 

 

°*°

 

“We’re being followed,” Lincoln says, a mutter under his breath. 

“I see him,” Octavia says from her position on Lincoln's right. 

“Have a plan?” Bellamy asks, looking past Octavia to Lincoln. 

“We have to be careful,” Lincoln says, guiding them down a narrow street between tall buildings. He decided last minute to take a precautionary detour on their way to Tondisi Hill. “We can't risk another innocent,” he says with the voice of a man clearly blaming himself. 

Lincoln takes another change of direction. “Okay, I'll go to Tondisi. I want you to go opposite for a little while, then come back. Let's lure him in, find out who he is.”

“What if he follows us?” Octavia asks. 

“He won't. He wants Heda.”

They reach a T junction. Lincoln stops and pulls his black hood over his head. He then places a soft hand at the back of Octavia's head to pull her closer and press a kiss against her forehead. 

“Be careful,” Octavia whispers, her hands on his hips. 

“Always.”

Lincoln steps back. He gives the both of them a goodbye nod before walking down one street. 

Octavia and Bellamy pull up their hoods, too, then walks the opposite direction. 

The night is pitch black as Lincoln weaves through shadows. As expected, the intruder follows him. Lincoln sets a slow pace on purpose. It's crucial to find out if the intruder will match his pace or gain in on him now he's alone. It also allows for Octavia and Bellamy to catch up with him sooner rather than later. 

The intruder slows down, too. It means he wants Heda, not Lincoln. 

This is Lincoln's specialty: stealth. When alone, he could easily lose the intruder. This particular one, though? Lincoln wants him – alive – so he moves at the edges of shadows, purposefully giving the intruder a glimpse of him now and then. 

This intruder is skilled, too, and Lincoln wonders if he's kru – if whoever wants Heda dead has upgraded to a kru assassin. If so, it could potentially become a disaster on Heda's hands – not only more dangerous, harder to control, but also a delicate, political matter. 

Two more corners, and Lincoln will meet the line of trees. 

One last corner, and the intruder will realize there’s no Heda waiting for Lincoln this time. That would also be the second Lincoln won't have full control over the situation anymore. Octavia and Bellamy better be there. 

The stretch of gravel dirt in front of Tondisi Hill is deserted as it usually is at night. Lincoln flexes his hands - stretching and clenching – as he walks the distance. He slows down, takes notices of the sound of feet shuffling towards him. He turns around only to find a gun pointed at his forehead. 

With narrow eyes and controlled breathing, Lincoln focuses his gaze from the mouth of the gun to the intruder’s face; it's hidden under the shadow of a hood. It's not enough to identify the person, but the fabric of the hood tells Lincoln that if this person isn't kru, at least they're working with one. 

“What do you want?” Lincoln asks, buying time. 

“You're a smart guy, Lincoln, I shouldn't have to tell you.”

“Enlighten me,” Lincoln says, needing more time. He can't yet put a name to the voice; it sounds familiar, like reminiscing old times and only remembering things vaguely. 

“Where are you meeting her?”

“I'm not.”

“Lincoln, don't speak ill.”

“I'm not.”

The intruder, his name, it hits Lincoln a split second before Bellamy comes storming out of nowhere to take a stand next to him. 

“Jossiah!” Bellamy snares. “What the hell are you doing!”

“Bellamy,” Jossiah says, venom thick on his tongue, his gun still trained on Lincoln. “Your mother deserved what came to her.”

“No,” Lincoln says, a hand on Bellamy's shoulder. “Don't give him the pleasure.” 

Bellamy's rage is a wildfire that Lincoln feels bubbling under his skin, but Lincoln knows he has the situation under control when Bellamy places a hand on Lincoln's back. 

Bellamy is a protector. His energy creates an impenetrable shield around himself and those he touches. Truthfully, they never experimented with these guns of Skai Houd, but the shield has disarmed many threats more serious before, and Bellamy's faith in his own energy never falters. 

“Lincoln,” Jossiah sing-songs like a maniac. He lifts a hand to pull down his hood, his platinum blond hair springing to life, wild like an electrical storm. He pins Lincoln in place with his pale, icy blue irises, but all Lincoln sees is the scar that runs like a dried out canyon from the corner of Jossiah’s left eye, down his cheek, crossing his lips. 

Lincoln knows that scar like an old lover that shamelessly trampled his heart to pieces, a ghost still haunting his dreams. 

Lincoln gave him that scar. 

See, Jossiah is an unfortunate tragedy. He was abandoned as a teenager, not purposefully so, but by accident. He decided to become a nomad – belonging to no faction, rejecting any help offered to him, taking orders from no one. 

It was no accident when Lincoln lashed out on him, an act of self defense when Jossiah decided Lincoln was no longer his friend, but a convenient target for his rage. 

The previous Heda banished Jossiah from the kru world – if he refuses to follow the rules, he is no longer welcome. Heda brought him to Polis City, ripped him of his kru mark and left him to become a hunter of his own fortune. 

“Jossiah, put the gun down,” Lincoln says. Every bit the trained scout of Heda's Guard. 

“Why?” Jossiah says, tilting his head cockily. 

“I don't want to hurt you, Jossiah.”

At that Jossiah laughs – a dry, apathetic laughter that once would've angered Lincoln. “It's too late for that, isn't it _Linkon_.”

The pronunciation of Lincoln's name – ancient kru dialect – is clearly an insult, but Lincoln ignores it. Jossiah broke his trust a long time ago, and Lincoln's loyalty lies with Heda – Jossiah’s biggest enemy. 

This situation is not enough to connect Nia to the attacks on Heda, but definitely enough reason to bring Jossiah in for questioning, so Lincoln works with what's he's got. 

“One last warning, Jossiah. Put the gun down!” Lincoln says, knowing full well it'll only agitate him further. In fact, he depends on it. 

“No. _You_ get one last warning. Where are you meeting her,” Jossiah bares his teeth, spitting out the words. He thrusts the gun forward as to make a point. 

“Now!” Lincoln shouts, and he can pinpoint the very second Jossiah realizes he's losing this fight. 

From the shadows, Octavia comes storming, her hands thrust forward, and a stream of well-aimed air forces the gun out of Jossiah’s hand. Jossiah turns to attack Octavia, but Lincoln and Bellamy are on him in a split second. 

Professionally, and with barely a fight, they have Jossiah pacified within seconds, his hands chained behind his back. Lincoln attaches the blocker to one wrist. It ensures that Jossiah can be transported through the portal as a captive and without being a threat to anyone's safety.

“It looks like you get your wish after all, Jossiah. Remember to bow for your Heda,” Lincoln says. 

 

°*°

 

From Heda's left shoulder hangs the color red, a cape-like garment attached to her black coat. It’s Heda's color, one she only wears on official Heda matters. Her hair is collected in a an array of braid that fall between her shoulder blades. Her eyes, framed by a thick line of black, demand order and respect as she strides into the room, head held high, a calm cyan shimmering below her feet. 

In the room, Heda finds Anya, Indra, Lincoln, and a man she only knows through stories. 

“You are the one they call Jossiah,” Heda says, meeting his icy blue gaze. 

“I would applaud you for your eminent deduction skills, but I’m afraid I can't,” he says, shaking his hands behind his back so the cuff chain rattles. 

“You are not a comedian, Jossiah, do not try to be one.”

Jossiah’s smugness withers from his lips and settles like a boiling anger in his eyes – a ticking bomb. 

“I have heard about you, Jossiah, and I will grant you my honesty. I am surprised to hear you have been asking for me,” Heda says. “What can I do for you?”

“I want what was taken from me,” Jossiah says, his voice a deep rumble, his nostrils flaring. 

“Your mark,” Heda says, clasping her hands behind her back. 

“My life.” Jossiah narrows his eyes, tensing his jaw. 

With a calmness coursing through her veins, Heda steps around Jossiah and walks to stand on the open balcony. Jossiah turns on his heels, his eyes never leaving Heda. 

“Heda before me _spared_ your life, Jossiah,” Heda says, keeping her eyes on the horizon. “You have a death warrant, did you know?”

When Jossiah doesn't answer, Heda spins around to face him. “The second you walk on these lands a free man, you–”

“–I'm a dead man,” Jossiah interrupts. He swallows. For the first time, his eyes fall to the floor. It shimmers a smokey grey below his feet. 

Heda walks up to Jossiah. “What do you know about the skai man who was hired to assassinate me?”

When Jossiah’s eyes lift to meet Heda's, a devilish grin lingers on his lips. “You haven't figured it out yet, have you? No, you haven't. Is that why you brought me here, _Linkon_?” Jossiah turns his icy blue stare to meet Lincoln's burning darkness. 

“Yussaiah!” Heda roars. 

Only the transient flash of white beneath Jossiah’s feet reveals that he flinches. His eyes are stone cold as they meet Heda's fiery emeralds. 

“In this room you will speak _only_ to me!” Heda's eyes challenge Jossiah to defy her. 

“Tell you what, _Heda_. Give me back my mark and I'll tell you what I know.”

“Tell me what you know and I will consider returning you to Polis City.”

The counteroffer hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud, ruthless, and bound to cause havoc. Jossiah, cornered like a wild animal, opens his mouth, but whatever he means to say is drowned out by someone knocking on the door. 

Only Nyko knocks this rhythm. 

“Indra, take him to the dungeon. He needs time to consider his options.” Heda steps back and nods for Anya to get the door. “We are done for now.”

“Time is running out, Heda,” Jossiah says, his lips twisting with saccharine malice. 

As Indra pushes Jossiah towards the door, Nyko enters with Clarke on his tail. Jossiah gives Clarke a once over, studying her with hungry eyes. 

“Heda,” Jossiah calls, eyes locked on Clarke's. “Be careful now. It would be a shame if history were to repeat itself.”

If Jossiah’s words affect Heda in any way, she doesn't show it. 

“Keep walking, Jossiah,” Indra commands, pushing Jossiah forward.

Jossiah chuckles, then, holding Clarke's gaze as he walks past her and out the room. Clarke looks at him, eyes narrow. She watches the door closing shut before her, distracted by a vague memory invading her mind. 

“Clarke,” Lexa calls. “Are you alright?” 

“Jossiah,” Clarke whispers, blinking her eyes back in focus. She spins around to meet a puzzled Lexa.

“Do you know Jossiah?” Lexa asks.

“I… No,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “I think I've seen him talk to my dad once.”

“When?” Anya looks at Clarke with commanding eyes. 

“Anya!” Heda's voice rings. 

“It could be important,” Anya says, not bowing down this time. 

“It doesn't m–”

“–The day before he died,” Clarke says.

The way Heda and her most trusted guard snap their heads to look at Clarke – eyes wide, holding their breath – sends shivers down Clarke's spine. 

“I think it's time you tell me what's going on, Lexa,” Clarke says. “All of it. Or I'm leaving. Right now.”


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you :)  
> Let me just say THANK YOU for your interest in this story, and your patience. I've worked hard to create this world and I'm having a lot of fun exploring it, so thank you for liking it :) 
> 
> With this chapter you'll finally get two things I know you've been waiting for: answers and clexa interactions. The first scene took me ages to write - if you have any questions, let me know? I hope I've balanced what I think you need to know at this point of the story. 
> 
> No more talking... Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# X

 

 

Arms crossed over her chest, an angry crease between her brows, Clarke watches everyone leave the room – Nyko, Lincoln and lastly, a scowling Anya. 

“I am sorry, Clarke,” Lexa says, looking at Clarke with the softness Clarke already knows isn't Heda's. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Clarke hates that she believes her. 

“I must start from the beginning,” Heda continues, guiding Clarke onto the balcony. “Be patient. It is a long story.”

Clarke takes a stand next to Lexa, letting her eyes wander across the horizon. Her dad never told her about this – the view from the top of the tower – and the unanticipated beauty steals Clarke's breath away. She doesn't notice the way Lexa studies her; with pride, with awe. 

“Our worlds are connected, but they have not always been. At least not if you believe the old legends.” Lexa looks onto the horizon as she begins her story. “Many generations ago, Heda was chosen through battle and the victor, the most powerful of nightbloods wore the title. The old legends tell the story of a Heda – her name was Becca – who was so power-hungry that she tried to enhance the nightblood to make herself stronger. Something went wrong and a creature was born, a concept existing in the layers between time and space; not a physical creature. We call it The Reaper.”

Lexa pauses to look at Clarke who looks every bit as perplexed as Lexa expects she would. “I believe your world calls this a myth,” she says, and when Clarke nods – still not quite sure where this is going – Lexa continues. 

“The Reaper tore a hole in the sky, and by doing so it created a gateway to your world. That is why we call it Skai Houd, the land in the sky. The Reaper kept tearing our worlds apart becoming more powerful the more it consumed. Becca realized her mistake, that both worlds would cease to exist if The Reaper was not stopped, so she sacrificed herself, using every shred of energy she had left to capture The Reaper.”

While Lexa's story seems far-fetched, Clarke still finds herself caught up in it. Lexa is a believable storyteller, a natural. She's undoubtedly told this story countless times before. 

Lexa lifts her hand to show Clarke her wrist, her mark. “Becca imprisoned The Reaper, locked it up, took the key, broke it in two and hid one half in this world, one half in your world. Becca called it Praimfaya. It means the greatest fire of all, and–”

“–Wait! Are you saying this mark is the key?” Clarke holds up her open palm. 

“These two marks combined, their joined energy, yes.”

“To the prison holding this reaper thing?”

“Yes.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it, Clarke?” Lexa says, giving Clarke her most sincere look. “Because you healed me that night, and not even Nyko is capable of that.”

Clarke frowns. 

“I will be honest with you. I did not believe it myself. I thought the myth of The Reaper was merely a convenient story to cover the unexplainable link between our worlds.” Lexa sighs, drops her hands to her sides. “Your mark is mentioned in the myth, Clarke, but no one has ever seen it before. Not until now. This is why I did not tell you before. I am not certain of anything. Not yet.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, going back inside. She needs to distance herself from Lexa to be able to think. Clarke's head is hung low, heavy with confusion. “Wait,” Clarke spins on her heel to face Lexa. “What does this have to do with my dad?”

Lexa walks up to Clarke, softly shaking her head. “I am not sure, but I suspect that he knew about your mark.”

“How? I just got it,” Clarke says. 

“These are the things I cannot explain, Clarke. Of what little we do know about Praimfaya it seems Becca programmed it to choose someone worthy to carry the burden it brings.”

“What burden?”

“Making sure The Reaper is never summoned. It does not matter whether the stories are true or not. If someone who does believe that The Reaper exists, if that same someone hears about you and the mark, and if they want to try to summon The Reaper, it means you are in great danger.”

Lexa pauses. She sees the millions of constricting feelings raging through Clarke. It's in her eyes, it's in the disarray of pulsating colors in the stones below her feet. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice careful but grave. “ _If_ the myth is real, it means that both our worlds potentially could cease to exist. It is our duty to believe it is true. If we gamble, we could risk the entire existence of our people. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

What Clarke understands is that it's not Lexa she hates; it's Heda. It's the one who tells Clarke what's right and what's wrong and how Clarke is supposed to handle all of this. It's the one who tells her that no matter how hard Clarke wishes she could walk away, it's not an option, it never will be. 

Clarke runs her hands down her face, from forehead to jawline, her fingertips leaving transient white lines down her cheeks. 

A heavy, broken sigh escapes Clarke's lips. “It's a lot to take in,” Clarke says, almost a whisper. 

“I know,” Lexa says. “Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

Lexa nods. Acceptance. 

“Yes.”

“Go on,” Lexa says, when Clarke stays silent.

“Did he… Did my dad…” Clarke frowns, she can't say it out loud. 

“I believe he died keeping you safe.”

Solemn feet carry Clarke onto the balcony. Blue eyes blink and tears spill down cheeks. 

“Clarke?”

“I need to be alone, Lexa.”

“Of course. Take as long as you need. I will be downstairs when you are ready. I have something I want to show you.”

Silence. 

It's not the response Lexa was hoping for, but the one she was expecting. 

“It is not your fault, Clarke. None of it is,” Lexa says before stepping out of the room.

 

°*°

 

Time passes. 

The skyline is a painting with a continually altering color scheme, and Clarke watches it until her vision is no longer blurred, and dry tears sting her cheeks. She keeps watching until anger no longer controls her breathing. 

Until she's empty. 

Clarke closes her eyes letting the cool air caress her cheeks. A buzzing of a crowd reaches her from below, and she looks down, hands on the railing, curious eyes searching for the source. 

Her dad told her about this plaza, too. Everything new Clarke sees in this world reminds her of her dad, and she's tired of it. 

Tired of missing him. 

Something tells her that if she wants that to change, she needs to create her own memories of this place. 

With a determined mind Clarke leaves the room on the top floor to find Lexa. It's an easy task, it turns out. Lexa and Anya are talking at the bottom of the stairs, and like magnets, Lexa’s eyes find Clarke's. 

“Will you show me the marketplace?” Clarke asks, still descending the stairs. 

“Of course,” Lexa says, momentarily taken aback by Clarke's request. She was expecting an angry Clarke, or at least an indifferent one. Not this. Not a Clarke that looks at her with an open mind - it's the best Lexa knows how to describe what she sees in those blue eyes. 

“But first, I have something for you. Come with me?” Lexa says, and Clarke accepts with nod. 

Lexa guides Clarke down a small corridor and through another door Clarke only seem to notice when she's right in front of it. 

Behind the door is a modest apartment. A spacey, bright room with a large bed like the one in Lexa's home. There's a door that opens up to a balcony, and next to it is a small table and a chair. The room holds a second door that leads to a bathroom, and next to it, a dresser. The overwhelming presence of reddish woodwork is to be expected by now, Clarke thinks, as she takes in the interior. 

“This is yours while you stay here,” Lexa says, hands linked behind her back as she watches Clarke pivot slowly in the middle of the room. “Would that work?”

“I guess,” Clarke says, lost in the details carved into the bedposts, curious fingertips tracing soft curves and delicate edges. 

“Would you like to freshen up before we go to the market?” 

Clarke nods. She means to ask Lexa something, but the sight that meets her when she spins to look at Lexa renders her incapable of doing so – the question already forgotten. 

Clarke only just now notices: the red fabric on Lexa's shoulder, the black around Lexa's eyes that emphasizes her emerald irises. It brings out tenfold whatever emotion Lexa's eyes hold. The careful gentleness is a deep contrast to the fearless leader. 

Thanks to her dad, Clarke knows exactly why Lexa is wearing the color red on her shoulder,and it strikes Clarke that Heda is just a young woman. Not unlike herself. Clarke wouldn't know what to do with the responsibility that comes with such a title. Lexa didn't even choose it. It chose _her_ and it breaks Clarke's heart. 

“Clarke?”

Clarke blinks, regaining focus. She clears her throat. “Uhm, yes.” 

“There are clean clothes in the dresser,” Lexa says, her fingers fidgety behind her back. “Let me know if they do not fit you, or if you need something that is not there. I will wait for you on the ground floor.”

“Okay,” Clarke nods. 

“Okay,” Lexa copies, then moves to leave the room. 

“Lexa?”

“Yes, Clarke?” 

“The toilet was an interesting experience. Is there anything I need to know before I go in there?” Clarke throws a casual thumb towards the bathroom. 

At that Lexa smiles. “There is a bathtub already prepared for you. I will show you how to do it later.”

Clarke nods, looking towards the bathroom. When she looks back at Lexa to thank her, Lexa is already gone behind the closed door. 

With a thoughtful crease between her brows, Clarke scans the room once more. The high ceiling makes her feel small, lonely. She wonders if Raven has been informed of her whereabouts yet, if the news of Finn's death has reached her, and how she'll respond to it. Clarke suspects that Raven still loves Finn, hoping he'll someday realize she's all he'll ever need. If Clarke is right, learning about Finn's death will shatter Raven’s heart – and Clarke won't be there to support her. 

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut. Hard, painfully so. She huffs out air through her nose and blinks open her eyes. She crosses the room to search the dresser for clean clothes. 

It looks surprisingly normal, like something from her own world: underwear, pants, shirts, socks, all of it. Clarke picks her choice – thinking maybe the difference is in the softness of the fabric – and leaves it on the bed. She then goes to the bathroom. 

There's a bathtub in the middle of the room. It paints a smile on Clarke's lips. She was expecting a big white thing on lion feet, but it's not. It's wood; of course it's wood. A handful of stones are placed below it, most likely heat stones to warm up the water. 

Clarke undresses. She has no idea for how long she's been wearing the same clothes. She'll ask Lexa how time works later. For now, she's stepping into the bathtub, sighing blissfully as the warm water envelops her body. It's easy to slip away here. She allows herself to close her eyes and lean back. 

She could fall asleep like this. 

She immerses her entirety into the water until she can't hold her breath anymore. As she breaks the surface, she runs her hands through her hair collecting the drenched locks at the back of her head. 

The air feels fresh in her lungs. 

She feels awake. 

Next to the bathtub is a small table with a selection of what Clarke assumes to be soap. She picks up a purple bar of soap – because it’s pretty – and is surprised to realize it smells just like she'd anticipated. Lavender. 

Lavender it is, then. 

A fleeting thought. Clarke wonders if it's Lexa's choice of soap as well. _Only_ a fleeting thought. Clarke reminds herself it doesn't matter what soap Lexa uses. What matters is that Lexa has information that Clarke needs, and she is finally beginning to open up about it.

It's a good start. 

 

°*°

 

“How is your blonde doctor?” Anya asks when Lexa returns to the stairwell. 

“Stop calling her that.” Lexa passes Anya and continues down the stairs towards the ground floor. 

“I can't believe you're letting her stay in Heda’s suite.” Anya smirks, catching up with Lexa. 

“To keep her safe, Anya.”

“Of course, Heda.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That tone in your voice.” 

“There's no tone, Heda,” Anya says, holding back her grin. 

Lexa clenches her jaw, pushing air out through her nose. “Are Bellamy and Octavia still here”

“Yes.”

“Tell them to patrol the plaza while Clarke is there.”

“Sha, Heda.”

“Stop it, Anya!”

“There's no tone!”

With another impatient huff, Lexa picks up her pace. Anya follows, an unstoppable smile on her lips. 

They reach ground level and Lexa takes a stand by the open entrance doors looking out upon the plaza in front of her. A rank, stoic demeanor, every bit Heda by appearance, Lexa puts out her foot to trip Anya up as she walks by.

“Careful now, Anya,” Lexa speaks up, the voice of Heda, when Anya stumbles. 

With a crowded plaza as their witness, Anya can't talk back. Instead she narrows her eyes, a silent promise that Lexa will pay for this when she least expects it. Lexa raises a pointed eyebrow. To anyone who may be observing them it's a warning, but Anya recognizes the playfulness. After all, she knows Lexa better than anyone; she practically raised her. 

When Anya continues onwards on her mission to find the Blake siblings, Heda celebrates her self-proclaimed victory with a smile – a toothy, wide grin. 

Lexa waits, then, for Clarke to join her. The jittery anticipation in her body is new, disturbingly so, and Lexa figures it must be because she worries anything might happen to Clarke while she shows her around the marketplace. 

“Lexa?” 

Lexa spins around to look at Clarke, and her mouth goes dry. Clarke doesn't know, but it's Lexa's black pants and Lexa's white long-sleeved shirt that Clarke is wearing. It's a tighter fit on Clarke, but something inside Lexa's mind likes it more than she's supposed to. 

Lexa tries to swallow the lump in her throat, but fails. She clears her throat, then, averts her eyes, but they roam downwards – down Clarke's body – instead of sideways, so she squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe, if Lexa is lucky – that once in a lifetime kind of luck – Clarke didn't notice. 

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks, and Lexa thinks the tone of Clarke's voice means that she wasn’t lucky at all. 

“I… Yes,” Lexa says, chancing to look at Clarke again. She's better prepared this time. Even for the questioning eyebrow Clarke gives her, playfully accusing her of things she's most definitely guilty of – it was not at all on purpose but Lexa is bashfully ashamed nonetheless. 

“I apologize, Clarke. You took me by surprise. I thought you were Anya,” Lexa says. 

“No you didn't,” Anya says, conveniently returning in time to witness Lexa’s slip-up. 

Wide emerald eyes flicker between Clarke's and Anya's. Lexa doesn't know what's worse: that she disrespected Clarke by ogling her – how unintentional it may have been – or that Anya saw it. Not even Heda’s command will be enough to hold Anya back now. 

“Oh, good. Anya, you are back. Shall we begin?” Lexa says, ignoring their looks,desperately wishing to move on. 

“After you, Heda.” Anya gestures with a hand for Lexa to get going, a cocky smile on her lips. 

Clarke chuckles silently as she follows the two women down marble steps. 

They cross the plaza – pale, dusty red tiles under Clarke's black sneakers – and Clarke feels eyes upon her immediately. Wondrous eyes, curious eyes. She's an outsider, and she's walking next to Heda. Clarke feels claustrophobic, her instinct kicking in. She scans her surroundings and sees two familiar shadows weaving through the crowd. Bellamy and Octavia. 

“How many are watching me?” Clarke asks. 

“They are not watching you,” Lexa says, as if it's another normal day at the office. 

“Lexa.” Clarke stops walking. 

“Yes, Clarke?” Lexa, dumbfounded. 

“We made a deal. I don't want to be chaperoned.” Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. 

“They are not–” Lexa presses her lips into a thin line. With a low voice, soft and honest, she says, “it is only today and they are watching all three of us. It is the first time I tread common ground after the attack.”

The vulnerability that surrounds Lexa in this moment makes it really hard for Clarke to stand her ground. 

“Fine,” Clarke says, dropping her arms. She strides towards the nearest vendor stall, not caring at all whether Lexa follows her. Except, maybe she does care a little – it's something she’d never admit out loud. 

“Hello miss, what can I do for you?” A smiling man with warm eyes and a gray beard looks at Clarke. 

“Hello, Isaac,” Heda says, silently taking a stand next to Clarke. Anya stands a few feet behind them, actively observing the crowd that is gathering around their Heda. “How are you?” Heda asks.

“I am fine, Heda.” The man named Isaac bows his head respectfully. “And you?”

“It is a good day, Isaac,” Heda smiles. It's delivered with such sincerity that Clarke can't distinguish Heda from Lexa. “Tell me, have you crafted anything new since I was here?”

“I have, Heda,” Isaac beams. He shifts to unhook a leather strap from the roof of his stall. He holds it up, presenting a small, beautifully carved wooden bird hanging from the strap. “I finally got the wings right,” he says, pride in his voice. 

“It is magnificent, Isaac. Very lifelike.” Heda lifts a hand, her fingertips almost, but deliberately never touching the tip of a widespread wing.

“Mochof, Heda.” Isaac blushes. 

Heda smiles and nods once. “Thank _you_ , Isaac.” She leans in to study the bird with careful eyes. 

A shaky breath next to Heda's ear alarms her. With worried eyes she faces Clarke whose eyes are glued to the bird, sadness threatening to spill. 

“Are you alright?” Lexa feels the pull, the need to place a comforting hand on Clarke's shoulder. She wills it to stay in place behind her back. 

“Yes,” Clarke says, her voice hoarse, eyes still glued to the bird. “It's beautiful,” Clarke says, “I had one just like it when I was a kid.”

“Thank you, miss,” Isaac says, bowing respectfully for Clarke. 

It snaps Clarke right out of her haze. She finds Isaac's eyes and says, “please, call me Clarke.”

Isaac's eyes widen, and he looks to his Heda who nods once, it's subtle, just for him. “Jake’s kid?” He asks. 

“You knew my dad?”

“Did I?” Isaac booms, his eyes light up. “He was my best friend. He taught me to carve these birds.”

It strikes Clarke like lightning from a clear sky, that no matter how hard she tries, she'll never escape the knowledge that she never truly knew Jake Griffin, her own dad. Her eyes find the bird again, and she takes a step back. Another. One more. She spins around and pushes herself through the crowd. 

“Anya.” With one word, Heda orders her bodyguard to make sure Clarke gets back safe. 

“Heda–”

“Now, Anya!”

Anya nods, mumbles a “sha, Heda” already on her way to catch up with _the blonde doctor_. She knows Bellamy and Octavia will take her position next to Heda, but it's not good enough for Anya. She trusts no one to protect the life of Heda; no one but herself. 

“My apologies, Heda, if I said something wrong.” Isaac says timidly. 

“Not at all, Isaac. She only recently learned about her heritage,” Heda says. 

“I see.” Isaac nods, reaching up to hang the bird back onto its hook. 

“How much for the bird?”

“For Clarke?”

“I think she will appreciate it once she has made peace with herself.”

“It is a gift.” Isaac holds it out for his Heda. 

“I will pay you.”

“Nonsense, Heda. Jake was my friend. It is my gift to his daughter.”

Heda holds out her hand letting Isaac lower the bird into her palm. It lands with a silent thud, featherlight as it settles in her hand and wraps around her heart. “Your kindness will not be forgotten, Isaac. Mochof.”

Isaac bows his head in respect and Heda bows hers in gratitude. Turning to go back to the tower, she finds Octavia and Bellamy already at her side. Eyes subconsciously finding the balcony on the eighth floor of Polis Tower, Heda takes a sudden turn. It has been a while since she did a tour of the plaza to talk to her merchants. It never hurts to show them that Heda is interested in how her people thrive. A distraction from worrying about Clarke's well-being is merely an added bonus. 

For the time being.


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> Here's one of my favorite chapters (so far). Without any further ado... 
> 
> I hope you'll like too <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XI

 

 

From the balcony on the eighth floor of Polis Tower, Clarke observes the crowd below her. It's a bit of a paradox to be watching these ant-sized bodies move about, because Clarke feels like the smallest person in the world; at least, in Heda's world.

Unimportant. 

Clarke doesn't belong here. 

Her home is far away; a small two-bedroom apartment that she shares with Raven who usually eats the last cereal without restocking. And when Clarke is in a bad mood, she can always count on her best friend to make her smile again. Back home, Clarke finds meaning in her job saving people's lives. It's what she's good at. 

But here, in Heda's world? Everything is upside down. Nothing is the same, no one is familiar, this room is too big, too quiet, too far away, and Clarke doesn't know what to do. 

Clarke feels small and alone, and no matter how bad she wants to go back home, the mark in her palm won't let her. She already tried forgetting – like Lexa told her to – and she failed miserably. She has no other choice but to stay. It's the right thing to do. When Clarke isn't overwhelmed, it makes sense. All of it. She's done denying it. 

Clarke looks at Isaac's vendor stall, the sand colored fabric that makes the roof. She's too far up to see the details of his crafted goods, but the bird that hung from his hand earlier is clear in her mind. The one Clarke had was shattered into pieces when she dropped it on the floor; an accident that left Clarke with a broken twelve-year-old heart. It was a long time ago, but she remembers that her dad promised to make her a new one as soon as he found the right kind of wood. She understands now why he never did. That particular wood only exists in Heda's world; a place he couldn't go back to because he chose to stay with his family. 

If Clarke wants to know her dad – _really_ know him – she could ask Isaac to tell her about him. She could. She wants to. She might. Soon. Once it stops hurting. 

There's a flash of red weaving through the crowd. Heda. Everyone wears earthy, neutral colors, so Heda's red shoulder keeps catching Clarke's eye. Clarke mostly remembers Heda as a ruthless leader, one who tells people what to do, commanding and fierce. But the way she slowly moves through the crowd, patiently talking to everyone in her track, leaves Clarke perplexed. Heda and Lexa are slowly becoming the same person in Clarke's mind, and she finds herself wanting to go back down to observe this phenomena. 

Clarke is intrigued, and she hates it. She still wants to hate Lexa. Or Heda. She doesn't know who anymore. It's hard to hate someone who does everything in their power to keep Clarke safe. 

Casting one last glimpse upon the bright blue sky, her lip caught thoughtfully between teeth, Clarke sighs. 

It's time to move forward. 

She pushes herself off against the railing and keeps momentum as she walks out the room and passes Anya who stands guard in the hall.  
“Where are you going?” Anya asks, irritable and impatient. 

Afraid to change her mind if she stops, Clarke continues onwards, down the stairs, ignoring Anya's callous glowering when she doesn't get an answer. 

The first thing Clarke does is go back to Isaac. His mild eyes, widened in surprise, meeting hers long before she reaches his stall. 

“I'm sorry that I ran off on you,” Clarke says.

“It is okay, Clarke.”

There is something about the way Isaac smiles, the way his teeth barely shows behind his thick, grey beard, that makes Clarke feel at ease. It's the warmth, Clarke thinks. It's the same warmth she always found in her dad.

“Will you tell me about my dad? Not now, but some other time, maybe?”

“Of course, Clarke. Maybe you can share your stories with me, too?” 

“I would love to,” Clarke says, a smile tugging at her lips. She bows her head, like Lexa usually does, and receives one in return from a brightly smiling Isaac. 

As she spins around, she’s met with a pair of brown eyes – still fierce, still ready to kill. “Now what?” The owner asks. 

“Take me to Lexa,” Clarke says. 

The defiance is ready to spill from Anya's lips, but she clenches her jaw to fight it in obedience to Lexa. “Follow me,” she says, spinning around to make room for Clarke to pass through the crowd. 

The way people naturally step aside to make room for Anya leaves Clarke too dumbfounded to care about everyone staring at her. The question Clarke doesn't hear is _“who is this person Anya guards, who could possibly be more important than Heda.”_

Anya scoffs internally, eyes focused onwards. When the crowd clears around them, Clarke finds herself standing in the periphery of an impromptu gathering. In the center of this human orb, Heda sits by a small stone table, thoughtfully staring at small objects lined up on the surface. Across from her sits a young boy, thirteen maybe, likewise deep in thought as he observes Heda. 

Heda lifts one hand, index finger pressed against thumb, flicking it to send off an invisible stream of air. It looks like magic to Clarke when one of the pieces closest to the boy tips over. The boy narrows his eyes as he assesses the setting in front of him. 

He flicks his finger, too, successfully tipping over a piece. He beams as he looks at Heda, and Clarke has never seen anyone smile with such softness and pride at the same time as Heda is right now. 

“Well done, Aden,” Heda says. 

“Thank you, Heda.” 

“Try this one,” Heda says. She takes one piece and places it an inch behind another. 

Aden scrunches his brows together. “How?” He says, his eyes sliding from the piece back to Heda’s playful emeralds. 

Heda winks at him. “Try, Aden.”

Silence buzzes in the air around Clarke, and she finds herself holding her breath in synchronicity with Aden as his eyes zoom in on the piece in the back. He flicks not only his finger, but his wrist too, trying to twist his stream of air. To no avail. Both pieces fall, and Aden sighs. The crowd exhales, and so does Clarke. So close, Clarke thinks, but truthfully she has no idea if it was. 

“Impossible,” Aden says. 

“Patience, Aden. It is difficult, yes, but not impossible.”

“Show me,” he says, setting up his pieces for Heda, raising his eyebrow in a challenge. He's every bit a child not believing a word any adult might tell him. 

Heda lifts her hand to blow on her wiggling fingers. An unnecessary appliance of good luck if the cocky eyebrow is anything to go by. Aden grins at her like a mischievous little brother, and Heda grins back. For show, Heda bites her lip to concentrate, and the world around Clarke is muted all at once. 

The twist of Heda's wrist is precise and confident like a surgeon's hand, and an impressed gasp fall in unison from the crowd when the back piece spins around once before tipping over. 

Childish arrogance is wiped from Aden face and he looks at his Heda in awe. “You have to teach me that, Heda,” he says. 

“Practice, Aden, and you will not need my help,” Heda says, another soft smile on her lips. 

Aden reaches across the stone table to meet Heda in a joined arm grip. He rises from his seat, bows his head, then walks away. 

“Show’s over,” Anya says, her voice lifted to an almost shouting. The crowd slowly dissipates. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says, a surprised greeting. That's definitely Lexa's voice, and Clarke hates that it makes her feel special. 

“Can I sit?” Clarke asks. 

“Of course,” Lexa says, compulsively running her palms down her thighs. 

Clarke takes Aden’s seat across from Lexa and picks up one of the pieces in front of her. “Is it a game?” Clarke asks, turning the piece around between fingers. They're all different in color, weight and material: of wood, of stone and of something chalk-like. The one Clarke holds is that familiar red wood that reminds her of her dad. 

“It can be, yes. It is a good way to teach our young ones to control their energy. I will teach you, but not today.”

At that, Clarke finally looks at Lexa. In those emeralds, Clarke finds concern and the fear of asking things that might make Clarke run again. 

“I watched everyone from the balcony, and I realized that all of this will stay the same no matter what I do. I can't run from it. I want to,” Clarke says, taking a deep breath. “I really wish I could. It's too overwhelming to be here.” Her eyes fall to the table in front of her. Clarke rarely talks about her feelings. It usually takes Raven a lot of persuasion in the form of alcohol and plenty of patience – maybe a little yelling, too – to get her to open up. 

Feelings usually feel like razor blades in Clarke's throat, but opening up to Lexa feels like a burden off her shoulders. A long awaited release. The silent understanding Clarke feels in Lexa's presence keeps pulling at her words. “I apologized to Isaac for running off, and I want to apologize to you too. You have been nothing but kind to me. You don't deserve to be the target of an anger that isn't really meant for you.”

“Apology accepted,” Lexa says through a subtle smile. 

“Thank you,” Clarke smiles too. She places the wooden piece back on the table. “Can you make this twirl and _not_ fall?”

Lexa demonstrates with a confident flick and well-balanced humility, eyes never leaving Clarke's, that yes, she can.

A huff of delicate amusement falls from Clarke’s lips, it makes Lexa smile grow. 

“Wanna see what I can do?” Clarke says. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, her eyes revealing pure curiosity, obviously not expecting Clarke to understand her own energy yet.

One eye shut, the other measuring up the wooden piece, Clarke holds a joined thumb and index finger in front of it. She flicks her finger, purposefully hitting the piece, sending it flying across the table and into Lexa's chest.

A flabbergasted Lexa fails to catch the piece as it ricochets off her chest, hands grasping clumsily at thin air. Anya snorts, only just holding back laughter when both Lexa and Clarke look up at her: one in pure shock, the other clearly satisfied. 

Smugness dances on Clarke's lips as she looks back at Lexa. “I can teach you that if you want. Not today, though.”

It makes Lexa grin, wide and carefree. “We can share tricks,” she says. 

“We can,” Clarke nods. “I also owe you my secret, but this is not the right place, I assume?”

“Oh,” Lexa’s eyebrows shoot up, gently, yet again surprised by Clarke's newfound openness. “No, this is not the place. Perhaps we can talk when you are ready to go back to the tower?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clarke says. “So, what happens now?”

“If you want, I can show you the rest of the plaza, and if you are hungry we can find you food.”

“And after that?”

The underlying question of what the future will hold is not lost on Lexa, nor is the tremor of fear in the back of Clarke's mind. “We will see,” Lexa says. 

“It sounds simple,” Clarke says, clearly not believing it. 

“Come on.” Lexa picks up the wood and stone pieces from the table and places them in her coat pocket underneath Heda’s red garment. “Let us start with food and take it from there.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, an echo of a well-thought-through decision. 

 

°*°

 

It’s with Anya in tow that Lexa and Clarke walks up the eight flights of stairs to Clarke’s temporary vacancy. The loyal bodyguard has been dismissed for the night, still she stubbornly insists on taking her spot in the hallway. Meanwhile, Lexa follows Clarke through the door and into a private bubble.

“Am I seeing things or does the door magically appear when I get close to it?” Clarke asks, when the door shuts behind her.

Lexa chuckles. Airy and light. “Run a finger behind your left ear,” Lexa says, as she demonstrates the movement.

Clarke frowns thoughtfully as her thumb finds what feels like a circle-like scar on the backside of her ear. “What is that?”

“It is Heda’s mark. It grants you access to the top floor and this room. Also my hobbit home,” Lexa says, still the remnants of amusement in her voice. 

When Clarke looks lost, Lexa clears her throat and continues. “You cannot enter this world without a kru mark – that is what we call it. If you are from this world, you are kru, and the mark is to make sure those unwelcome do not enter. I gave you that mark the night I brought you here.” Lexa’s eyes fall to her feet.

“Heda’s mark?” Clarke asks. “What does it do?”

Lexa makes a circle movement in the space between their bodies. “It looks like this,” Lexa says, as Clarke stares mouth agape at the shimmery red cogwheel hanging in the air. “Go ahead, you can touch it,” Lexa says, when Clarke’s hand stops itself halfway in the air. 

If this isn’t magic, Clarke doesn’t know what is. She reaches out to touch it, but her fingers run right through the cogwheel. It's… air. 

“It is an illusion. To best explain it you can say that I colored the molecules in the air,” Lexa says. “Only Heda’s guard wears the mark. Only the most trusted. That counts Anya, Lincoln, Indra and Nyko.”

“And me?” Clarke says, her face colored shade of shocked confusion.

“I… yes,” Lexa says, her voice timid – something Clarke never thought possible from the one they call Heda. “It is the only way to keep you safe.”

“Okay,” Clarke breathes, barely a whisper. The importance of Heda’s mark and the fact that Clarke wears it overwhelms her, and she swallows the lump that forms in her throat. 

It takes both of them by surprise when Clarke suddenly changes the subject. “My dad left me a wooden chest. My mom kept it from me until… the other day,” Clarke trails off. Time is blurry; she doesn’t know when it was, exactly. “She said, that _he_ said, that only I held the key to open it.” 

“A key?” Lexa’s eyebrows meet in deep thought.

“Yes. It has the infinity symbol on the lid, so I pressed my hand against it.” Clarke lifts her left hand and stretches her fingers. “I couldn’t open it. I got sick. I don’t think I’m strong enough yet.”

“Where is it now?”

“Under my bed.”

“I will send Lincoln to get it.”

“He won’t hurt Raven, will he?”

“I promise Raven will be safe too.”

“Okay.” Clarke nods, already lost in thought about home and movie nights on the couch with Raven.

“It is not an infinity symbol.”

“What?” Clarke blinks her way back to reality.

“This,” Lexa takes Clarke’s hand in hers and presses a careful finger against the mark that is bright against her skin. Lexa’s finger starts in the middle and traces one half of the mark – one loop. “This is my world, and this is your world,” Lexa traces the other half of the mark. She then presses her finger against the intersection. “This is the gateway, or portal if you will, that links our worlds.”

Clarke frowns.

“Tondisi Hill,” Lexa says.

“The obelisks?” Clarke says, eyebrows lifting in recognition.

“Yes. You need a kru mark to travel through the portal.”

Hand still in hand, whirlpools sucking in emeralds, they stand in the middle of Clarke’s borrowed room – unbeknownst to Clarke that it’s Heda’s own suite. If two people can hold their breath and share the same air all at once, that’s what’s happening. 

“I have overwhelmed you enough for today, Clarke,” Lexa says, reluctantly letting go of Clarke’s hand.

Yes, she has – in more ways than Clarke is capable of pointing out. 

“I must go. There will be someone outside when you wake up. They will take you to me.” Lexa takes a step back but stops there. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. Isaac wants you to have it.” Lexa slides a hand into her pocket and gently pulls out Isaac’s bird. She places it in Clarke’s still outstretched hand, and when Clarke still doesn’t say anything, Lexa goes to open the door. “Sleep well, Clarke,” she says, then shuts the door behind her.

Lexa doesn’t see the tears that trickle down Clarke’s cheeks as she holds up the bird in its leather string, letting it play against the light that shines through the balcony door. Clarke’s mind is a kaleidoscope where each fragment of color is a feeling too big for Clarke to comfortably contain. It’s an explosion that shakes her core, and Clarke _knows_ that this is a turning point. For the first time since she healed Lexa, Clarke finally feels like she’s walking down the right path.

It’s unexplainable with words. 

It’s intuition at best.

It’s the warmth that has replaced the darkness in her heart; if only for a moment, a moment that makes Clarke forget ten long years of mourning.

On her first night in her borrowed room, Clarke dreams of glowing bugs and the most powerful wizard of the land far away – just like when she was a kid – only this time, the wizard with emerald eyes is joining her on her adventures.


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So, I know you're all thirsty for clexa interactions (I am, too)... and I think you're going to appreciate the next two chapters... but first, I need to plant a few seeds - they may be good, they may be bad - in your already confused minds, because we're slowly beginning to focus on Lexa's problems more so than Clarke's problems. And this note is probably confusing you right now, and I may or may not be sorry about that ;)
> 
> But... Here's chapter 12 for you with a reminder that Clarke's world still exists, and Heda has a bit of a conundrum to solve.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts with me. I really do appreciate it <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XII

 

 

There’s a knock on the door. Three careful thuds against wood, and Raven holds her breath contemplating if she dares to move from the couch. If she dares to make a noise. If she dares to open the door. Fact is, Raven isn’t expecting anyone over. Not even Clarke who’s been missing for three days now. 

Raven barely slept the night Clarke never came home. She wondered if Clarke had found a stranger without a name to distract her for a bit – she wouldn’t blame her if she had – but deep down she knew it wasn't the case. The next morning Raven found a note in the letterbox from a stranger letting her know Clarke would be gone for a while, that she’s safe, and that Raven need not worry.

So yeah, Raven worried. 

She still does. She worries that something bad has happened to Clarke, she worries that the cause of that hypothesis is right now standing on the other side of her apartment door.

Three more knocks. A little louder this time.

_“Miss Reyes?”_

The voice of a man Raven doesn’t recognize travels through the door. There’s something about it – an unexpected politeness. A voice in the back of Raven’s mind argues that maybe this is the same person who left her the note about Clarke. 

Taking a look through the peephole wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Raven goes to the door, and finds that a bald man with warm eyes stands outside her door. Clarked talked about a bald man; one she liked, a good guy. 

“What do you want?” Raven calls through the door, still not touching it.

_“Are you miss Reyes?”_ The man asks. Raven sees his eyes light up with hope.

“Who’s asking?” 

_“My name is Lincoln. Clarke sent me.”_

“Is it you who left me a note the other day?”

_“Yes.”_ Lincoln looks directly into the peephole, then. The sincerity in his eyes confirms that this is definitely the bald man Clarke talked about. 

Raven slides the door chain off and opens the door. She rivets her eyes on Lincoln with an unmistakable message. Raven demands answers; just like Clarke did. 

“Thank you, Miss Reyes. Can I come inside, please?” Lincoln says, his eyes sliding to neighbor doors. “It’s a private matter.”

A thoughtful crease stays between Raven's brows as she steps to the side and gestures for Lincoln to cross the threshold. He's a humble man, Raven decides, as he nods gratefully, his hands tentatively finding each other in front of him. 

“Thank you, Miss Reyes.”

“Okay, rule number one. Call me Raven. Miss Reyes makes me sound old.”

“Uh, of course… Raven.” An apology forms his lips. 

“So, Clarke sent you,” Raven says, closing the door behind them. 

“Yes. She told me to pick up something, a chest?”

“Don't think so.” Raven crosses her arms in front of her. 

“What do you mean?” Lincoln looks taken aback. 

“I need proof that Clarke is alright.”

Lincoln frowns. “She sent me.” 

“Or, she's held captive and you somehow know about the chest and want it,” Raven says, dry sarcasm painting her words. “I'm not gullible.”

“I’m not saying you are, Raven,” Lincoln holds his hands up defensively. “Look, I need to bring the chest to Clarke. How do you suggest that happens?”

“She can come get it herself.”

“I get the feeling that's your final offer.”

“Because it is.”

“I understand,” Lincoln says. “I shall bring back your message.” He shifts to open the door. 

“That's it?”

“I'm sorry?”

“You aren't going to force it from me?”

“Of course not, Raven,” Lincoln's eyes widen. “I’m only a messenger.”

A beat or two, Lincoln holds his breath while Raven seizes him up. Raven trusts science more so than her intuition. Always. But she can't apply science to this. She only has Clarke's words that this man is one of the good guys. 

“Are you keeping her safe?” Raven asks. 

“Yes.” 

“From what?”

“I can't tell you.”

Raven nods, biting her lip, frown still in place. “Tell her I’ll only deliver the chest to her. If she can't come to me, find a way to get me to her. Alright?”

“Consider it done.” Lincoln bows, just an inch, before opening the door to slide back into the shadows of Polis City. 

Raven watches the door swing shut in slowmotion. She releases a shaky breath and pulls out her phone from her back pocket. She dials Clarke's number only to receive a set of beeps that translates into an unreachable state. 

“Goddammit, Clarke, come on,” she says, staring at the phone. “Please be alright.”

Ignoring today's unanswered calls from a Dr. Griffin Senior, Raven slides the phone back into her pocket. 

What the hell is she going to tell Abby? 

 

°*°

 

Clarke wakes up to a dark room and a really, _really_ nice bed. She lets the soft mattress absorb the weight of her body for another couple of minutes before getting up. Bare feet against cold floorboards, she walks carefully towards the only light she sees: a slim opening between heavy curtains. She wonders if it ever gets dark in this world. She knows the sun is always on the horizon, but it messes with her mind. What time is it? What day is it? How long has she been here? 

Rested arms stretch above her head, and bones pop and crack down her spine. She yawns, blinks moisture into her eyes, then she pulls at the curtain. 

The sky is not unlike a morning sunrise, golden orange and bright, but there's a tint of green hanging like porous clouds below it. Northern lights? Maybe. Probably not. The atmosphere here is its own phenomena entirely, and Clarke has given up trying to understand the science behind it. It wouldn't surprise her if Raven either refuses to believe her stories or has a perfectly plausible explanation at hand. 

Life is buzzing on the plaza below the balcony, and Clarke pushes the door open and steps out into fresh air. She feels a pull, wanting to be a part of it, but more than anything, she wants to go home.

She wonders how many times she'll have to wake up like this before she can return to her own place. 

She wonders what plans Lexa has for her today. If she'll share more about whatever that is threatening Clarke's safety back home.

Only one way to find out.

She goes back inside, pulls on a pair of black pants and a sand colored, long-sleeved shirt with a hood. The fabric is thin, soft, surprisingly comfortable, and Clarke wishes she could keep it when all this is over. 

A quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up and Clarke is ready to start her day – if that's what they call it. If there is no night, is there day?

“Hello, Clarke.”

“Oh, hi.” Clarke is surprised to find Nyko outside her door. 

“Did you sleep well?” Nyko asks. 

“Yes, thank you.”

“That is good. Hungry?”

“Yes,” Clarke smiles, her stomach growls in agreement. 

“Let us get something to eat, then,” Nyko chuckles. 

Nyko guides Clarke down the stairs in silence. Clarke expects to find guards waiting for her outside the tower, but to her surprise, there are none. No Anya, no Octavia, no Bellamy. It baffles Clarke to a halt, and Nyko turns around to look at her with questioning eyes. 

“Is something wrong?” 

Clarke has come to appreciate his attentive manner – a healer, he'd be an amazing doctor in Clarke's world, too. Clarke meets his eyes, gives him a smile and says, “not at all.”

They trudge on, Nyko guides Clarke around the plaza along a small dirt road path with the backs of vendor stalls on her left and the beginning of a forest on her right. 

“So, where are we going?” Clarke asks. The curiosity in her own voice surprises her. She trusts Nyko not to guide her into trouble. 

“To the healer quarters. After we eat I will show you around.”

The excitement that flows through Clarke's veins and lands on her lips in content isn't lost on her. It seems a stark contrast to the hatred everything in Heda's world usually ignites within Clarke. Or used to. 

They take a turn, and the forest thickens gradually. Small, thin bushes grow man sized and occasional trees dip their crowns in a welcoming greeting. Clarke gets lost in the botany of Heda's world: the colorful flowers, the peculiar berries. Her dad told her about these things, but what she remembers is pallid compared to the world Clarke is currently exploring. Step by step. Minute by minute. Before she knows it, trees are thrice her height, direct sunlight is sparse. 

Birdsong steals Clarke's attention. Her eyes roam the tree tops to find the source of harmonious chirping. She's heard it before; outside Lexa's home. Soft, rich tones. Like a moist fingertip rubbing the edge of a wine glass. Several wine glasses, in fact. A joined symphony is what it sounds like.

“We call them shadow singers,” Nyko says. He’s been observing Clarke for a while, a smile on his lips. 

“Mh?” Clarke looks at him. 

“The birds you can hear. They are reserved creatures. If you ever see one, consider yourself very lucky.”

Clarke's eyes are pulled towards the tree tops again. “What do they look like?”

“Ask Heda.”

“Lexa?” 

“Yes. She is the only one I know who has seen one.” Nyko smiles as he continues walking. “Come on, Clarke, we are almost there.”

The knowledge that Lexa – one of very few lucky ones – has seen a so-called shadow singer is something Clarke doesn't know what to do with. If it's luck, then why does Clarke feel the need to be impressed?

Pushing thoughts of emerald eyes observing a rarely seen bird out of her mind, Clarke falls into step next to Nyko.

“So… Lexa…” Clarke doesn't know how to ask Nyko when she'll see her without sounding like she actually wants to see her, so she pauses to reconsider her words. 

“Something came up last minute. She will find us when she is done,” Nyko explains. 

They turn another corner, another large tree, and Clarke's eyes widen as she takes in the view in front of her. In a clearing between trees, log cabins are scattered in an oval form. In the middle is a small square with a garden and benches – a common area to be shared between the cabin occupants. Both patients and healers, Clarke later learns. The bond between healer and patient is important; the stronger the connection, the better the healing works. 

Nyko guides a curious Clarke inside the first cabin on the left. “Let us eat,” he says. “I will introduce you after.”

 

°*°

 

The dungeon is underground, below the guard quarters. It’s purposefully badly lit and smelling like death. It's an unpleasant place to spend your days, a well-suited destiny for those locked up here, those guilty of likewise unpleasantries. 

As Heda and her most trusted guard enter the dungeon, Indra is already there ready to debrief her. 

“Anything new?” Heda asks. 

“No. He is silent.” Indra says. 

“I could make him talk,” Anya mutters, poison spilling from her lips. 

“Anya.” Heda’s voice is unkindly telling her to shut up.

“I know,” Anya sighs, “the laws we protect.” 

It's a silent discussion, swift. Anya respects Heda's laws more than she wants to give into her impatient need for results. It's no secret to anyone that Anya would love to have her way with Jossiah; she remembers vividly the _unpleasantries_ he was guilty of, and he deserves a destiny much worse than to be banished to Polis City. 

Without another word, Heda moves past Indra down the corridor until she reaches the cell that holds Jossiah. His temporary home is narrow, and just deep enough for him to lie down, if he wants to. There's no bed, no chair – only darkness, a vile stank, and a bucket if his body needs to be relieved. 

Heda touches the light stone on the wall next to the cell door, casting a gloomy light around her. 

“Have you come to a decision, Jossiah?” Heda asks, her eyes stolid as they focus on the invisible shape of a man they know they'll find in the darkest corner of the cell. 

Slowly, like a satiated predator, Jossiah emerges from the dark. His hands hang loosely by his side, his stride arrogant, cocky. He stops in front of Heda, taller than her, he bows to meet her eyes. Icy blue is the color of a challenge, emerald is a shade of disinterest. His hands reaches to grab the bars that keeps him imprisoned, his fingers slowly curling around the cold, grubby metal. 

Jossiah copies Heda's lack of emotion.

No one blinks. 

Then Heda takes a step back, touches the light stone to summon the darkness once more. She walks away, head held high, soundless, calm steps. 

She doesn't need to turn around to know that Jossiah’s icy blue stare unwaveringly follows her out. 

She doesn't care. 

She doesn't stop until she's outside, reverently enjoying the fresh air hitting her nostrils and filling her lungs. 

“Anything?” Indra asks, taking a stand next to Heda. 

“He needs more time.” Heda says. 

“How long?” Anya asks. 

“It does not matter. He will not speak, and I will not play his game.” 

“So, what's the plan, then?” Anya wants to know. Indra hums her approval of the query. 

“I will come back. Leave him alone until then. Do not talk to him, ignore any request he might have. No food, no water, no light.”

“Sha, Heda,” Indra says. 

Heda starts walking. Towards anywhere that's not here. Anya follows like she's supposed to. 

“I have a… hunch,” Heda says, almost a whisper.

“A hunch?” Anya repeats, sending Heda a sideways glance, a sarcastic lift of an eyebrow. Heda always weighs all facts, she doesn't have _hunches_. 

“I cannot pinpoint what it is, but something is not right.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Why does Jossiah want his mark back _now_?” 

Anya's eyes scan their surroundings, no sign of anyone who might be overhearing things they shouldn't. “You mean, coincidentally a very short time after the ambush?”

Heda nods once. “I need to consider all options.”

“A decoy?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Both deep in thought, they trudge down deserted paths surrounded by trees until they reach the main road leading to the tower.

“Say he's a decoy…” Anya wonders out loud, still not sure where to take this thought. 

“He claims to know secrets, demands the impossible in return, and refuses to speak,” Heda shares her own thoughts. 

“A distraction,” Anya answers her own unspoken question. 

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

With minds hard at work, their feet carry them to the tower. A dubious Anya watches Heda stride past the path to her home, obviously aiming for a different destination. 

“You're not going home?”

“No.”

“Where–Oh, you're checking up on your blonde doctor?”

“Her name is Clarke,” Heda says in a slightly biting tone, failing to hide her frustration. 

“Lexa…” Anya says, stopping in her tracks.

“What?” Lexa stops. Heda is gone the second she looks at Anya. 

“Shouldn't you be focusing on Jossiah?”

“I am,” Lexa says. “ _If_ he is here to distract me... If this is a setup, I will let him believe he is successful. As far as he knows I await his decision. It gives _me_ more time to prepare for whatever may or may not happen. In the meantime, I will check up on Nyko and Clarke.”

Anya nods. If she feels ashamed to have misread Lexa, she doesn't show it. Before she gets a chance to reply, Lexa has already moved on, leaving Anya to pick up her pace to catch up. Anya considers making another blonde doctor comment, but decides against it. Perhaps Lexa isn't even aware of the effect Clarke has on her. If that's the case, pushing Lexa too hard on matters of the heart could potentially push Lexa back into the impenetrable shell Anya spent a lot of time _finally_ wearing down. 

“Alright. Let's see what Nyko and Clarke are up to,” Anya says, giving Lexa a little shove, shoulder to shoulder. 

A sideways glance, they share a smile – Anya's mildly taunting twitch of lips meeting Lexa's failed attempt of hiding what the mentioning of Clarke's name does to her.


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!
> 
> I'm back with a little bit of magic for you. This is one of my favorite chapters <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XIII

 

 

On a dusty grey stone bench in the nexus of the healer quarters, between magnificent floral life and under the mild glow of the sun Clarke has a million questions for Nyko who is happy to answer them all. 

They have just finished the tour around the quarters. Nyko introduced Clarke to the healers and a couple of curious patients, and Clarke was surprised to discover that one of the cabins had an operation room – not high tech, but functional. 

There in the garden, Nyko explains that sometimes someone will be injured in such a severe manner that their natural healing energy isn't enough to save them. What they know about surgery, they've learned from Clarke's world. Simple surgery procedures only. 

“So a gunshot wound…” Clarke wonders out loud, trying to understand the limitations of this healing energy.

“Surgery,” Nyko says matter-of-factly. 

“To remove the bullet, right? But you heal the wound?”

“No, we can only heal superficial wounds. A gunshot wound is too deep. But we can sedate locally, take the pain away while we perform surgery.”

It doesn’t sound right to Clarke. If a strong healer like Nyko can’t heal a gunshot wound, then howcome Clarke can? Those thoughts are too big to be had right now. Afraid of what that means, Clarke pushes them aside. She tries to focus on the simple things, the easily grasped ones. “How about inflammation?”

“A strong healer can reduce superficial inflammation. For the severe cases we have herbs,” Nyko lifts a hand and gestures to the plants in front of them. “This garden is made up of the most necessary healing herbs,” he says. 

“Oh,” Clarke breathes, barely a sound. She slides off the bench and takes a seat cross-legged on the crooked tiles in front of the plants. “I thought they were just pretty things to look at.”

“They serve more than one purpose,” Nyko says, the pride in his voice not lost on Clarke. 

They share a smile, before Clarke looks to the plants again. A garden of healing herbs. It makes sense; they’re neatly packed in straight lines, like a green garden with rows of lettuce and carrots and spring onion and whatnot. “Are any of these anti inflammatory?”

Nyko takes a seat on the ground next to Clarke. “You have to combine these two,” he says, pointing at two plants which both have small green leaves. 

“They look the same.”

Without a word, Nyko plucks a leaf from each plant and gives them to Clarke. She studies them, both sides, with eyes, fingers. She even sniffs them. Nyko studies her with interest, like a master who studies his apprentice. 

“If truth is not shown, it must be hidden,” someone says behind them. Despite the familiar timbre, it startles Clarke. 

“You beat me to it, Heda,” Nyko says, sharing a knowing smile with the woman now seated on the bench. 

“Lexa,” Clarke says, twisting her torso to look at her, momentarily lost in the way the sunlight reflects in the emerald of Lexa's eyes. “How long have you been there?”

“Shortly,” Lexa says, folding her hands in her lap. “Have you solved it yet?”

“Solved what?”

“Nyko’s riddle.” When Clarke looks a little lost, Lexa repeats, “if truth is not shown, it must be hidden.”

With a thoughtful frown Clarke goes back to study the two leaves. She looks at Lexa again, then at Nyko, then back at the leaves. “Truth is hidden,” she mumbles. “Inside?” She wonders out loud, mostly to herself. 

Clarke doesn't see the smile Nyko and Heda share when Clarke lifts the leaves, caught between each thumb and index finger, over her head to catch the backlight. She's too busy staring at what she sees, mouth slightly agape in awe. The branching vein of one leaf is dark. That of the other leaf is light. Like the mark of Praimfaya, Clarke thinks. 

Perhaps it's a thing in Heda's world, that pairs are marked so they're easier to find. 

“Mh, so how does it work?” Clarke asks. 

“You gather a handful of each and squeeze out the oil and mix it together. You can apply it to the inflamed area, or you can drink it,” Nyko says. 

“It tastes horrible,” Lexa adds. 

“Yes, it is true,” Nyko says. “We like to add flameberries.”

The mentioning of those little orange berries brings a smile to Clarke's lips. “I can imagine the sweetness is strong enough to even out the horrible.”

“Yes,” Nyko and Heda agree in unison. 

On the dusty grey stone bench, Lexa is fighting hard to keep her restless hands still. She presses her palms against the cold stone surface with more force than necessary. 

Clarke is wearing one of Lexa's sand-colored hoodies, and it makes Lexa's heart ache, and her stomach drop, and she considers asking Nyko for one of his nausea relieving remedies even though she knows it won't help at all. 

The cause is Clarke. 

No remedy of Nyko’s can cure that. 

“What happens if I only take the oil from this one?” Clarke says, holding up her left hand. 

“Nothing,” Nyko says. 

Clarke then lifts her right hand repeating her question with a silent lift of an eyebrow. 

Nyko shakes his head. “They are just tiny green leaves on their own.”

With curious eyes, Clarke holds the leaves against the sun again. This time she puts one on top of the other, dwelling on the fact that only the dark veins are visible like this. It's like the mark of Praimfaya in her palm, Clarke thinks. It seems to be hidden under the protection of Lexa's half.

“How far are you, Nyko?” Lexa asks. “Can I borrow Clarke?”

“We are done. We will pick up the next time,” Nyko says, looking from his Heda to his new favorite student. 

“Perfect,” Lexa says, standing up. She links her hands behind her back, not to be formal but to keep them occupied. “I have something I want to show you, Clarke. Would you care to join me?”

“Sure,” Clarke says, pushing herself up off the ground. “Thank you, Nyko.”

Lexa watches as Clarke bows her head in a goodbye greeting to Nyko. It's kru formality, not Skai Houd tradition, and once again Lexa finds herself in awe of how well Clarke is adjusting; how well kru manners suit Clarke. 

Lexa needs to remind herself to breathe. 

They walk through the forest, and Clarke doesn't know whether they're on their way back to the tower or if Lexa is taking her somewhere else. Every tree, every bush, it all looks just the same. 

“She is guarding me, not you,” Lexa says when Clarke looks over her shoulder for the third time. 

Anya is walking a respectable distance behind them, far enough to not eavesdrop on their conversation, close enough to intervene should they stumble upon any sort of threat. Lexa's request for privacy is frowned upon by her bodyguard, but respected nonetheless.

Lexa does in fact have a private matter to discuss with Clarke, but it doesn't happen on their walk through the forest. Lexa takes Clarke on a detour down non-populated paths – it's easier for Anya to keep an eye on them – and Clarke is so caught up in everything new she sees that Lexa forgets this walk has a purpose. It's too easy to fall into step next to Clarke and be excited because Clarke is excited. 

“Hold on,” Lexa says, stopping Clarke with a hand on her shoulder. 

Clarke's eyes land on Lexa's hand, then fly to meet Lexa's gaze. 

“I apologize,” Lexa says, removing her hand. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Clarke wants to tell Lexa that she didn't startle her, that it's okay, that there's no reason to remove her hand, but that would mean that Clarke admitted to liking Lexa’s proximity, so she holds her tongue. 

“Look.” Lexa clears her throat, then nudges her head in the direction ahead of them. 

“What am I looking for?” Clarke asks, squinting to see something out of the ordinary, but all she sees is a hillside too steep to climb and a barely treaded path leading away from it. 

“Take a step forward,” Lexa says, that soft demanding tone that doesn't insist on anything else than to be heard. 

And Clarke listens.

Not because she wants to but because she can't help herself. 

Taking a step forward, squinting again, she still doesn't know what she's looking out for. 

“One more,” Lexa says, suddenly a step or two closer to Clarke. 

Clarke ignores the heat she can feel radiate from Lexa standing so close. She takes another step forward, and then she sees it. The steep hillside is Lexa's hobbit home. It’s accompanied by a tingling behind Clarke's ear, and she only now realizes that the tingling she's felt whenever she enters and leaves her room in the tower is because she enters and leaves those places Heda's mark grants access to. 

“Take a seat, Clarke, I will be right back.” Lexa walks past a dumbstruck Clarke and disappears down the three stone steps and into her home. 

Still in a daze of her latest discovery, Clarke watches Anya follow Lexa inside. 

A thought strikes her; this is the first time Clarke is outside alone since she arrived here. She expected it to be the greatest feeling in the world, a newfound freedom, but it's in fact a little lonely. And frightening. Clarke spins around to take in her surroundings. She has absolutely no idea where she is except in front of Lexa's home. She knows nothing of what lurks in the shadows of the forest, if anything lurks at all.

Her eyes keep scanning the place, up down right left, they land on the spot on top of Lexa's hill where Lexa told Clarke about her dad. Her feet carry her around the hill and up the stone steps. She takes a seat on the ground, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets time wash by. 

Does time even exist here? 

“Clarke?” Lexa's voice calls from somewhere. It’s colored by something Clarke never thought she'd here in Lexa's voice: fear. 

“Up here,” Clarke calls back, keeping her eyes closed. 

Clarke hears Lexa's footsteps climb the stone steps and feels Lexa’s body take a seat next to her. Only then does Clarke open her eyes. Lexa has taken off her black coat with Heda's color on the shoulder in favor of a hoodie that looks a lot like the one Clarke is wearing, only it’s olive green.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks. 

“I have a lot of questions.”

“I will try to answer them.”

“How does time work? Do you have day and night? And how long have I been here?”

“Whenever our sun makes a full round it is the same as your twenty-four hours. Our ancestors called it Sunraun which means one round of the sun, but we have adapted your word: day. One round is a day. You have been here for almost four rounds.”

“Four days?” Clarke says, surprised, because it doesn't feel like four days have gone by. Maybe because it never gets dark. Could be. “You don't have night?”

“Once in a while the sun will reflect a dark shade of blue, and it will feel like an early night, but no, we do not have night.”

“How do you know when to sleep?” Clarke nearly shakes her head. It's a stupid question. She knows the answer before Lexa gives it. 

“We sleep when we are tired,” Lexa says, subtle amusement coloring her voice. It's almost as if she knows Clarke regrets the question. 

“Four days…” Clarke mumbles, lost in thought about home, Raven and the hospital. Even her mom is the subject of a thought or two. Clarke fights back the urge to let her mom know she's alright. Raven will probably have told her anyway.

“Here,” Lexa says, thinking that maybe Clarke needs a change in subject. She holds out an object for Clarke. “This is a light stone.”

Clarke takes it with a gentle hand, tentative care. It's with the same eyes that explored the leaves – full of thought and curiosity – that Clarke studies the oval stone. It's colorless, maybe grey is the most fitting. It weighs nearly nothing. “Are you going to teach me to make it glow?” Clarke says. It's a random thought, she wonders out loud, not really serious at all. 

“Yes.”

“Really?” Clarke snaps her head to meet Lexa's gaze. 

“Yes.” Lexa smiles.

“Oh. Okay. So what do I do? No, don't say it! Let me guess. There's a hidden switch somewhere.” Clarke flips the stone over in an exaggerated manner, pretending to look for a switch. 

“No.” Lexa looks at Clarke, amused by Clarke's antics. 

“I have to shake it three times?” 

“No.”

Clarke shakes it three times. When nothing happens Clarke pushes her lower lip out in a forceful pout, but her eyes are sparkling with playfulness. 

It elicits a laughter from Lexa's lungs. A breathy sound that barely exists, but it's the first time Clarke has heard her laugh, and so it reaches Clarke's ears with the impact of a waterfall. 

It turns Clarke's pout into a wide, toothy grin. “Okay, I give up. Tell me what to do,” Clarke says, still smiling. 

“Okay,” Lexa says, letting her eyes linger on Clarke’s smile before looking at the stone in Clarke’s hands. “Consider kru energy to be invisible waves – like sound waves. You want to send them into the stone and the easiest way to do so is with your hands. Light stones are easy because they do not care what kind of waves you send its way. This is the first thing we teach our young ones.”

“No pressure at all,” Clarke deadpans, because if she can’t do what the young ones – what she assumes to be small children – can, it won’t look good.

“You have done it before, Clarke. Otherwise you could not have healed me. You need to overcome the psychological barrier. You need to believe that kru energy is real, that _you_ have kru energy.” As an afterthought, Lexa adds, “just like your father.”

Then Clarke stares at Lexa, and while Lexa finds herself being sucked into whirlpools, Clarke gets lost in emeralds. 

“Give me your hand,” Lexa says, “I’ll show you.” 

Clarke places her left hand in Lexa’s right, palm against palm, fingertips gently brushing against wrists. Lexa's hand is cool against Clarke's palm, it surprises Clarke how fast she’s learned to ignore the burning. 

“Ready?” Lexa asks, and Clarke nods, her eyes glued to their joined hands, her lungs frozen in time. 

Lexa sandwiches Clarke's hand between both of her own. Clarke feels the familiar tingling, and she sees the dull glow. It feels like electricity dancing on gentle tiptoes on Clarke’s skin. Clarke thinks, perhaps she feels that electricity dancing in her heart, too.

“Now you try,” Lexa says. 

The thoughtful frown Clarke wears when she’s concentrating, springs alive on her forehead as she tries to imagine invisible waves shoot out of her hand. 

Nothing.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Clarke admits.

“I am injured,” Lexa says, “my hand is cut open and it needs to be healed so I do not die.” 

Even though Clarke knows it isn’t true, her instinct kicks in, and she immediately moves her hand to look at Lexa’s, but Lexa tightens her hold on Clarke’s hand. 

“It is very grim,” Lexa says, “you do not want to look at it. I am dying, Clarke, time is short, What are you going to do?”

Frowning, Clarke bites her lip, then presses her eyes shut. She understands the game, she needs to visualize it. Amidst the hypothetic chaos, Clarke feels the memory of Lincoln’s hand on her shoulder. 

_Focus on making her better._

“You are doing it, Clarke,” Lexa says. “You found your voice.”

When Clarke opens her eyes, it’s not to see the glowing hand – she can feel the tingling, she knows it’s working – but to meet Lexa’s eyes. The pride in Lexa’s smile nearly blinds Clarke, and it grows to overtake her own heart. 

“My voice?” Clarke asks.

“Your motivation. Fixing people is your strongest instinct. That is where you will find your kru energy.”

Clarke nods, speechless under the weight of too many unexplainable things happening all at once. 

“So, try again,” Lexa says, letting go of Clarke’s hand. Lexa’s own hands find each other in their newly found restless state.

“So… I just need to imagine this stone is dying,” Clarke says. “Okay.” She takes in a deep breath, then picks up the stone. She feels stupid, imagining a bleeding rock and trying to fix it, but it works. “Ha!” She booms, when it starts to glow. 

“Good. Now, switch it off.” Lexa says, trying her best to keep her excitement at a minimum level. She is, after all, still Heda. Calm, collected, practical. A gentle smile will do. 

Biting her lip, Clarke concentrates on healing the bleeding stone again. It stops glowing. Clarke grins as she makes the stone glow, then not glow, then glow again. “Raven won't ever believe me,” Clarke says with juvenile excitement. 

By the mentioning of Raven, Lexa grows serious again. “There is something we need to talk about.”

Clarke looks at Lexa with questioning eyes. 

“Lincoln went to obtain the chest from your apartment, but your roommate, Raven, said that if you want the chest, you have to come and get it yourself.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Of course she did. I should've known. Am I allowed to leave to pick it up?”

“Of course. You are no prisoner. But I would like it if you allowed me to send my guards with you.”

Clarke frowns. “What kind of danger are we talking about?”

“We have not found the one guilty of shooting me,” Lexa says, the next words pick up speed, bordering a rambling voice, “I do not know if they know about you. I do n–”

“–It's okay, Lexa. You don't have to explain. I get it. Whoever they are they can't know about the mark,” Clarke says, placing a hand on Lexa's knee. “I accept the guards.”

“You do?” Lexa’s eyes slide from the hand on her knee to Clarke’s eyes.

“Yes. Here, too. I was thinking earlier that I don't know what I'll bump into here, and I have absolutely no idea how to defend myself.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, Clarke.” 

Clarke doesn’t know whether to say _thank you_ , or _you’re welcome_ , so instead she smiles and goes back to study the light stone.


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> It's Sunday again, meaning I have a new chapter for you :)  
> Once again, thank you for reading this verse, and thank you for your comments. I hope everyone is having a nice weekend.
> 
> So...  
> Did anyone else miss Raven?  
> It's time for Clarke to return to Polis City, and to retrieve the wooden chest ;)
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XIV

 

 

“This is Tondisi,” Lexa says. 

“Tondisi Hill,” Clarke says, a nod of remembrance. Both hands are on her hips, she's still slightly out of breath after the walk up the hillside behind the tower. 

“This is the gateway between our worlds. You need a kru mark to travel through it.”

“It looks just like the one in Polis City,” Clarke says still gaping at the four obelisks in front of her. It's the product of a sounding thought, said to no one in particular. 

“Yes. It is exactly the same except for...” Lexa walks up to the nearest obelisk without entering the portal field. She taps a finger against the engraved symbol on the stone surface. “Do you see this?”

“Is it a compass?” Clarke asks, looking at the round symbol with arrows pointing to what would be the four corners of the world. An uppercase N is engraved in the middle. 

“Yes. North, west, south, east,” Lexa lists, pointing to a new obelisk with every word. 

“In Polis City, they're the four elements, right?” Clarke asks, bringing forth a vague memory from her childhood. “Earth, wind, water and fire.”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Clarke says, curiously frowning as she takes a step forward to better study the obelisk, but Lexa stops her with an outstretched arm cutting her off.

“Be careful,” Lexa says. “do not yet step into the field.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Clarke says, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

“It is alright. It will not harm you, but I need to prepare you first.”

“For what?” Clarke looks from Lexa’s outstretched arm – still held up against Clarke's stomach – to meet her gaze. 

Words are frozen in Lexa’s throat, and she blinks trying to help them along. When they do escape her lips, they float in an aerial string of syllables. “The journey. It can be very uncomfortable if you are not prepared.”

“So prepare me,” Clarke says, copying Lexa's almost-whisper. 

“Okay,” Lexa says, internally commanding her body to take a step back. With distance between them, Lexa links her hands behind her back and says, “it will feel like being thrown through the air, and you may become sick. I will guide you, and you may find it beneficial to hold your breath and lock your eyes onto one obelisk until we arrive.”

“Hold my breath, look at obelisk, get thrown through the air. Got it,” Clarke says, seizing up the portal field as if it was an opponent in a football match. 

“To guide you I will have to touch you,” Lexa says, a small voice, smaller than she meant. 

“You can touch me, Lexa,” Clarke says, holding back an eye roll. 

“I did not want to presume,” Lexa says. She clears her throat. “Are you ready?” 

“Beam me up, Scotty,” Clarke says, and when Lexa looks at her, puzzled out of her mind, a bright laughter jumps from Clarke's lips. “You don't know Star Trek?”

“No,” Lexa says, dryly. 

Either Lexa doesn't understand the joke, or she doesn't want to be the subject of a joke. Clarke doesn't care which one it is; her laughter settles in a wide grin that not even the big bad Heda’s scowling glare can wipe off. 

“I'm ready, Lexa.” Clarke says, her eyes still smiling, but with a humble earnestness this time. 

“Very well.” Lexa takes a stand next to Clarke and places a hand at the small of Clarke's back. Lexa is too busy keeping a steady breath to notice Clarke's eyelashes flutter. “Your vision will blur so re–”

“–Obelisk. Got it.” Clarke interrupts. “And hold my breath.”

Lexa doesn't know why she's nervous. She's never nervous. Why is _Clarke_ not nervous? 

“Hold your breath,” Lexa repeats, “and then take a step forward.”

“Okay,” Clarke says. With an unexpected force she releases excessive air from her lungs before inhaling new fresh air. She then takes a step forward and Lexa follows, guiding Clarke into the middle of the field, stirring her with an experienced hand. 

Clarke locks her eyes on the engraved S, Heda's mark tingling behind her ear. Gravity pulls at the colors and shapes of Heda's world, and it pulls at every single molecule in Clarke's body. It doesn't hurt, but her guts twist and turn enough to give the illusion. Clarke’s lungs are burning with the desire to indulge in new air, but there's no way she'll be able to grant them their wish. Not when the world around her is breaking down and reconstructing before her eyes. It's unlike anything Clarke could've ever imagined and it leaves her both terrified and awestruck. 

“Look at the S,” Lexa's voice chimes in Clarke's ear.

Clarke clenches her jaw, balls her fists, focuses on the landmark. The hurricane in her blood is slowly subsiding, and Clarke relaxes as her vision tunes back into focus. 

“It is over, Clarke. You are okay.”

All of Clarke’s senses are rioting, she's not sure what's real, but it feels like Lexa's hand is running circles on her back, Lexa's other hand is firmly holding onto Clarke's shoulder, everything is clear but Clarke can't focus, there's that nausea again. 

Lexa guides a disoriented Clarke out of the portal field. She hands Clarke a tiny bottle and says, “drink this, for the nausea.”

Without hesitation Clarke grabs the bottle and downs the content. “Thank you,” she sighs, letting the sweet flameberries warm the inside of her stomach. 

“Lincoln, guard her with your life,” Heda says as Lincoln, Octavia, and Bellamy approaches them on the top of the hill. 

“Sha, Heda,” he bows for his leader. 

Casting one last glance at Clarke, Heda spins on her heel and steps back into the field. As arranged, Anya is waiting for her, arms crossed over her chest, fixating Lexa – not Heda – with a cocky stare as she returns. 

“You like her,” Anya says. 

“Yes.”

“Lexa–”

“–It cannot happen, Anya.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Hiding behind her duty, Lexa walks with Heda's face and Heda's forceful strides as she walks down the hill towards the tower. 

It's time to get to work. 

It’s time to unravel Jossiah’s secrets. 

 

°*°

 

The darkness of a morning yet to rise envelops Clarke as she walks through the streets of Polis City. She only now just realizes she missed this: the night, the stars, the cold air against her skin. 

Clarke used to go stargazing with her dad. They would sit in lawn chairs covered in blankets on the veranda, and he'd tell her about constellations and talk about the vastness of space, of the many planets, of the endless opportunities that lie in not knowing where it all ends. He'd stargaze with Clarke with an unfathomable excitement, and Clarke loved him for it even though she was too young to fully grasp the importance of infinity. 

Clarke understands now. To some extend, at least. Heda's world seems finite, confined by the track of the sun that circles their world. To an adventurous and insatiable mind like her dad's, of course Polis City would seem alluring. Polis City is certainly not larger than Heda's world – far from it – but at least it holds the promise of possibilities beyond the visible borders. 

Clarke understands now. 

While Heda's world holds the truth of who Jake Griffin once was, Polis City holds the truth of the man Jake Griffin chose to become. A scientist. A husband. A father. A great man. He was successful in all he did. He might’ve chosen to keep Clarke's heritage a secret from her, but he did after all choose a life in which she was the product. He chose her, his daughter. 

It settles like a calm in Clarke's body as she looks from the sky above her to the man with black curls by her side. 

“Can I ask you something?” Clarke says. 

“Sure,” Bellamy says. 

“Why is it not Lincoln who walks with me?” 

“I'm a better shield.” 

“A shield?”

Bellamy meets her eyes in a sideways glance. Briefly. Then he's back to watching the streets. Clarke can't read him, and it bothers her. She feels safe with Lincoln and she wishes it was him by her side. 

“If we meet a threat, I can shield you – both of us – while Lincoln and Octavia can attack from the shadows. They're here too, don't worry,” Bellamy says. 

“Okay.” Clarke frowns. She wants to ask Bellamy what it means being a shield, but her mind is exhausted, filled to the brim with the events of the past four days. The past four rounds of the sun, Clarke adds in her mind. She'll ask Bellamy about it another time. Or Lexa. 

They walk the rest of the distance in a silence. A silence Clarke isn't sure is uncomfortable because Bellamy doesn't want to babysit her, or if it's Clarke that simply isn't accustomed to his request for space to do his job without any distraction. 

Lincoln is nicer. His gentle demeanor assures Clarke that she's as safe as can be. 

But she gets it. Heda's order is the only law they abide – Clarke's comfort comes second, if at all. 

Abandoned alleys become familiar streets, and when Clarke turns the corner and passes that tiny Vietnamese take-out place Raven loves, it strikes Clarke she's home. 

_Home._

Away from Heda's world and glowing hands and healing energy. Back to normal. Except Clarke doesn't feel normal. Clarke walks through Polis City dressed in clothes from Heda's world. She feels out of place and right where she's supposed to be at the same time. The street lamps glow a dull orange and Clarke realizes she hasn't been surrounded by electricity in _four days_. Her first thought is she didn't miss it. And by some obscure link she can't pinpoint, it makes her think about Lexa and light stones. And the pride in her own heart that reflected that of Lexa's lips when Clarke finally lit it herself. 

Clarke finds herself stopping in front of her apartment building. She pulls out her key and pushes it into the lock. It's odd to be entering a door like this; a door that didn't magically appear as she approached it. 

A simple, normal door with a lock and a key. 

Yeah, Raven is never going to believe her. 

The main door swings shut behind them as Bellamy follows after Clarke up the stairs to her third floor apartment. Clarke fumbles with the key when she goes to unlock her apartment door. As she's about to push open the door, it swings open, startling Clarke. A blur of something familiar rushes to greet Clarke in a hug. 

Raven. 

“Clarke, you're alive,” Raven whispers, holding Clarke tighter. 

“Yes,” Clarke chuckles. “I'm alive. It's good to see you too.”

Bellamy clears his throat, and Clarke knows it's not impatience, but him telling her to take it inside. 

“Who are you?” Raven greets Bellamy with accusing eyes and hostility in her voice. 

“He's with me, Rae,” Clarke says. “Now chill with the murder eyes and let us in.”

“Murder eyes,” Raven mutters. When she meets Clarke's gaze again it's with a rare seen vulnerability. “I thought you were dead.”

“You didn't get my message?”

“I got _a_ message. From a stranger. That's not proof.” 

Raven steps aside and lets Clarke and Bellamy into the apartment. Barely inside the living room and Clarke stops in her tracks. Blankets and pillows are scattered all over the couch, Raven's laptop is on the coffee table along with several empty glasses and used tissues. There's no doubt in Clarke's mind that Raven has been camping in the living room while Clarke was gone. Something she only ever does when she's upset. 

“Rae…” Clarke says, a sad breathy sigh, as she turns around to face her friend. Raven is wearing pajamas pants with tiny batman logos everywhere and a loose t shirt. She looks tired and broken, and it leaves Clarke in search for the right thing to say. 

“How long will you be staying?” Raven asks, ignoring Clarke's eyes questioning her with concern. 

“How long have I got?” Clarke looks to Bellamy. 

“We need to get back before sunrise but you can take a day,” Bellamy says. 

“I would like that. Could you… I know Lexa has given you orders to watch me, but do you think you could step outside, give us some privacy?” Clarke is ready to kick Bellamy's ass out – with force if needed – but with his cold, uncompromising demeanor she reckons asking nicely with a dash of humility is a better tactic. 

“Of course.” Bellamy clears his throat, his eyes fall to his shoes. When he looks up again he looks at Raven, then at Clarke. He nods. “I'll let Lincoln know we're taking a day before returning. I'll wait on the bench.”

“Thank you.” Clarke locks the door behind Bellamy. It's barely a second before a sob escapes Raven's lips and Clarke is rushing to her pulling her into a hug. “Come on, let's sit down.” 

Clarke guides Raven to the couch, removing a few pillows to make room for them both. Raven slumps into the couch, lethargic and small, and the little hairs rise on Clarke’s neck because she knows Raven’s next words before they’re spoken.

“Finn is dead,” Raven says, her hands resting palm up like numb limbs on her thighs.

“I know, Rae, I’m so sorry.” Clarke’s stomach drops. She feels the guilt rise in her chest. Just now does she realize that she’d forgotten about Finn; about Anya killing Finn; about Finn following Clarke. It’s Clarke’s fault, and she’s a horrible person. A terrible friend.

“You know?” 

Clarke’s eyes drop when Raven looks at her.

“Clarke,” Raven says, the hint of a warning.

“The night I didn’t come home, Lincoln took me to see Lexa after work, and Finn…” Clarke inhales, trembling and cautious, then she swallows the lump forming in her throat. “Uhm, Finn thought I was in danger so he followed us, and…” Clarke shakes her head. “There was an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Rae… “

“Clarke.”

“I… I did what I could, Rae.” Clarke chokes on her best friend's name. She watches heavy teardrops fall from her eyelashes to her palms; she feels them sting in her eyes and the warm moisture on her skin. Her next words are spoken through a hoarse whisper, each word slowly delivered as Clarke tries to control her breathing. “Finn was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I couldn’t save him. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Fear hammers in Clarke’s chest, and she hears nothing but the thumping in her ears against Raven's shallow breathing. 

“I don’t understand… How is it your fault?” Raven asks.

Clarke lifts her hands, stunned by internal images of a lifeless Finn on the ground. She makes a gesture, a weak motion to say the things she cannot voice, then drops her hands back into her lap. 

For what it’s worth, Raven understands enough for now. She lays her head on Clarke’s shoulder and lets the last of her tears fall. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers.

“Shut up,” Raven says, closing her eyes.

Already accustomed to a different perception of time, Clarke doesn’t feel the minutes pass. It could be hours, she thinks, as she watches the morning sun framed by their living room window awaken and cast a soft, golden glow on their walls. Raven fell asleep at some point, her head in Clarke’s lap, and Clarke has been running remorseful fingers through dark brown locks ever since. Clarke is afraid to wake her up. She’s afraid Raven won’t have peace in her heart when she eventually does, and Raven doesn’t deserve to hurt over Finn; not by his commitment issues, not by his death.

Clarke is afraid that Raven will hate her as much as she hates herself.

Raven stirs and Clarke holds her breath. 

Brown eyes open, and they meet Clarke's gaze in silence. Raven blinks. “Clarke?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn't you come home?”

“I blacked out when I tried to heal Finn, so Lexa brought me back to her, uh, place so I could heal too.”

“Do you have to go back?”

“Yeah. Lexa is teaching me to control… this,” Clarke lifts her left hand. “And there's a healer named Nyko who’s teaching me too. And I met one of dad's childhood friends, and–What?” Clarke stops talking when she's met with a raised eyebrow accompanied by a subtle smirk on lips from Raven. 

“You like it there, don't you?”

“No.” Clarke frowns. “Well… It's not so bad. It's different… It's… Dad grew up there.”

“I get it.” Raven repositions to take a seat next to Clarke. She begins to massage the muscles above her knee. “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. It’s a little complicated,” Clarke says. 

Silence envelops them once more. Clarke can feel the sadness seep out of Raven’s body, the loneliness. It makes the guilt in her gut expand once more. It’s supposed to be them against the world; no matter how cruel it is, they fight together. 

It _is_ complicated, Clarke tells herself. If everything Lexa told her about the mark of Praimfaya is true, or just remotely true, Clarke can’t risk being reckless. Staying with Lexa is the smart move. The truth is, Clarke feels lost without Lexa’s guidance. Only once since that night Lexa came into the hospital with the gunshot wound has Clarke felt in control. Once. When Lexa taught her to ignite the light stone. 

A couple of days ago Clarke hated Lexa’s guts. It’s odd how such a short time can turn the tables so drastically.

“I can hear you thinking. What’s going on?” Raven asks.

It takes Clarke a while to gather her thoughts. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Raven to keep her secrets, it’s the unknown factor, the danger that none of them understands, that Clarke doesn’t trust. “I understand now why Lexa told me to forget,” Clarke says.

“Are you going to tell me to forget now too?” Raven says with a hint of a smile.

“No,” Clarke chuckles. “Just… Don’t hate me if I can’t tell you everything. They’re not my secrets to share.”

“Okay,” Raven nods. “I think, I get it.”

“I hate it, though.”

“I know.”

“They don’t have electricity.”

“What?” Raven’s eyebrows meet in confusion.

“Or toilet paper.” Clarke continues.

“Seriously? That place sounds terrible.” Raven looks disgusted, and it makes Clarke laugh.

“They don’t need electricity because the sun never sets. It circles their world horizontally,” Clarke says, making a circular movement with her index finger. “And they have stones that glows instead of lamps.”

“You hit your head,” Raven says. 

“I did not.” Clarke says. She blinks. Those three words escaped her lips in a tone not unlike Lexa’s. An image of emerald eyes flood her mind and Clarke shakes her head to get rid of it. “Speaking of toilet paper… I’m gonna go pee, and then I’m helping you pack and take you to my mom’s place.”

“Clarke, th–“

“–For a few days, at least. I don’t like to leave you here alone, and my mom would love the company.” Clarke says, getting up off the couch.

“Okay,” Raven sighs. “For a few days.”

“For a few days,” Clarke smiles.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Raven calls as Clarke is halfway through the living room.

“Uh,” Clarke stops to give herself a once over. “I didn’t exactly bring extra clothes, Rae.”

“Mh.” Raven purses her lips, nods appreciatively. “Those pants make your ass look good, is it leather?”

With a frown, Clarke twists to look at her own ass. The borrowed black pants are the same unrecognizable but so soft-looking fabric as Lexa’s long coat. “What? No. It’s… I don’t know what it is.”

“Whatever it is… If you consider bringing me a back a souvenir, I want a pair of those.”

For a moment in time, they both forget the world outside their apartment. They forget about lurking dangers, Heda’s world, Finn’s death… All of it. Left are two best friends supplying comfort to each other – a safe haven.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Clarke smiles, before going to the bathroom.


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you.  
> Thank you for the nice comments! <3  
> I hope you're enjoying your Sunday. 
> 
> I like to give you a little introduction to every chapter, but I've come to learn that it's really hard to do so with My Soul Alight without giving you spoilers.  
> Either way, here's chapter 15... it should give you a couple more pieces to the puzzle.
> 
> Enjoy! <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XV

 

 

Heda visits the dungeon two more times without results. It's purposeful in its own way. She studies Jossiah’s silent rebellion through the metal bars, the shade of ice in his eyes, the stillness of his lips, the arrogance in his stance, the lack of muscle movement in his body, this charade he may or may not be keeping up for show. 

For three visits Jossiah has approached her from the depths of the dark corners of his cell, and for three visits Heda has stood completely unfazed by his presence – merely an arm’s length away – and returned his impassive face and his resistance to cave. 

If anything, Jossiah was simply a caged animal that Heda was studying.

While Heda’s first visit planted a seed in her mind, the next two nurtured it into a flourishing sprout. Jossiah’s silent rebellion was hoped for, in fact. With the little sprout in Heda's mind, a plan started forming. 

On Heda's fourth visit to the dungeon, she is flanked by her First Bodyguard, notorious with her uncompromising way to handle threats, and by her Second in Command, a well-respected woman Jossiah has no respect for at all. At some point Jossiah stopped counting the times Indra gave a teenage version of him a day or two in the dungeon for misbehavior; his aversion to Heda – Heda of title, Heda of any time – given more reason to manifest in his mind with every visit. 

As the three women approach Jossiah’s cell, it elicits exactly what Lexa was hoping for: a change in Jossiah’s demeanor. He takes extra time – more so than usual – before rising from his darkness, his lips set in a nasty smile. It's small, it doesn't reach his cold, calculated eyes, but it's there. 

It's all Heda needs to know.

Jossiah is a dangerous man. He's a liar, and he's damn good at it. 

“Bringing in the cavalry,” Jossiah smiles, and it's no different than the musty, acidic stench of this hole of a dungeon. 

Heda let's her eyes wander across Jossiah’s face, the sweaty white curls plastered to his forehead, the angry scar down his cheek, the stillness behind his eyes. He's a handsome man. He's charismatic, and Heda fears he'd one day decide to gather an army; he'd be good at it if it wasn't for his selfish ways. 

Heda studies him until his smile returns to its previous, passive line of disinterest. 

It's Heda's cue. 

“Jake Griffin,” Heda says. The name is delivered as a command one does not defy. Her eyes bore into Jossiah’s, challenging him to continue his foolish plans of not speaking. 

“I know not of this man you speak of,” Jossiah says, full control of his voice, and Heda can't be sure, but she senses the ice in his eyes grow harder. 

“Know you of a traitor’s destiny?” Heda's in his face now, a step closer. While Jossiah uses his height to intimidate Heda – towering over her like a mountain ready to shred the small village in the valley to pieces in an avalanche – it is of no importance to Heda. Kru energy is weak in Jossiah, and Heda sees no threat. 

Jossiah’s fingers curl around the metal bars merely inches from Heda's neck, and it pleases Heda because his knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip as he repeats his words. This time a pitch or two lower, darker.

“I know not of this man you speak of.”

Heda bows for him, her eyes never leaving his, taunting him with a respect both of them know he does not deserve. “Very well,” Heda says. She gestures for her companions to leave, then touches the light stone on the wall. 

Alone in the darkness, Heda hears Jossiah’s breath. It's too even to be natural and Heda smiles internally knowing she found his weak spot. Finding the reason behind this weak spot is her new mission, but she knows he'll never speak as long as she asks him to. 

“The next time we speak will be by _your_ request. Until then,” Heda says, “may light find you in the dark.”

Then Heda steps away, down the hall and towards the fresh air her lungs so desperately needs. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke decided it was the smarter choice to change her clothes. If anyone from Heda’s world was looking for her, wearing her borrowed clothes begged for them to succeed. Thus, wearing a pair of old jeans and her navy blue Polis University hoodie, and with a duffle bag in hand containing the wooden chest among a selective few other things, Clarke stands in front of her mom’s door watching it, perplexed by what she sees.

“What’s wrong?” Raven asks.

“The door is off-white, right?”

“Yes,” Raven replies, dragging the word with uncertainty, Clarke’s confusion mirrored in her eyes. “is it not to you?”

“No. Yes. Well… Remember it used to be red?” Clarke asks, and Raven nods. “It’s like I see both colors, like it shimmers.” 

If Clarke were to look at Raven, she’d find her best friend questioning her sanity. But Clarke is too busy reaching out to touch the door, thinking if she can see two doors, does it mean she can _feel_ two doors, too? Just as her fingertips are about to brush against the shimmering paint, the door swings open and Clarke is faced with a demon she’d somehow manage to forget all about.

“Clarke?” Abby says, surprise and insecurity and fear all spilling from her lips.

“I…” Clarke begins, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. “Raven needs a place to stay.”

“Come inside,” Abby says, pulling the door open all the way as she takes a step back. 

Foreseeing Clarke’s panic, Raven lays an urgent hand on the small of Clarke's back and pushes her through the door. While the door closes shut and Abby welcomes Raven in a hug, Clarke stops in her tracks caught up by a feeling she certainly wasn’t expecting to happen here. 

Not in Polis City. 

Heda’s mark behind her ear was tingling when she crossed the threshold. In theory Clarke knows what it means, but it can't be right. Clarke racks her brain for anything that would explain why the door to her childhood home would have a kru veil. Is it for protection? Or is it hiding something? Does it have to do with the two doors Clarke just saw? 

How long has it been there? Maybe Lexa knows. 

“Clarke?” Abby calls for her daughter's attention. 

Clarke cringes when she meets her mother's concerned eyes. It's all the attention and care a teenager doesn't know how to ask for and now Clarke stands, twenty-six years old, not wanting any of it. She feels like a spoiled brat. She feels fully entitled to be one. 

“Where have you been?” Abby continues, resisting the urge to tackle her daughter in a hug. Clarke might stand on her doorstep, but the notion of their relationship is still very delicate. “I've been worried sick. You didn't answer your phone.”

Teenage Clarke would've surely mistaken those words for an angry parent, escaping them by hiding in her room the rest of the day. This Clarke, today's Clarke hears the concern and the pain entangled with those words, and it _kills_ Clarke because she wants nothing more than to run to her mother's arms and be enveloped in her warmth, but she can't. Her mom doesn't deserve to be forgiven. Even if Clarke wanted to she wouldn't know how to forgive her. 

This turmoil of the past and the present has picked Clarke up like a hurricane and hurled her around forcefully enough that she barely registers the tears falling on her cheeks before her mom envelops her in a hug. 

And Clarke doesn't push her away. Instead she allows her broken teenage heart to tear down its walls and let it soak up her mom's love for the first time in ten years. 

It has been a long time coming. 

“What happened to you,” Abby whispers, a spoken worry too frightful to be kept silent.

“I'll get brunch started,” Raven says, picking up Clarke's duffle bag that contains their groceries. She retreats into the kitchen to give them some much needed privacy. 

“I'm okay,” Clarke croaks.

“Did they hurt you?” Abby places both hands on each side of Clarke's head, like a mother checking if a toddler was injured from a fall. 

“No, mom. I'm okay. They're not hurting me. They're looking out for me.” Clarke slides out of her mom's arms, wiping her cheeks dry with the sleeves of her hoodie. “I'll go help Rae.”

Left in the hallway to her own devices, Abby’s lips form a sad smile. She doesn't expect Clarke to ever forgive her. She knows her daughter, though, and if Abby had ruined their relationship completely, Clarke wouldn't be here now. Not even for Raven. It's a string of hope, a very thin one, but Abby holds onto it. 

As she enters the kitchen, she takes a seat by the kitchen island and watches her two daughters prepare brunch. “Need help?” She asks, almost afraid to speak. 

“We got it, Abby,” Raven answers, fully focused on scrambling the eggs by the stove. 

Clarke finds a cutting board and a knife and begins the task of rinsing tomatoes. There's a thoughtful silence filling the air, while water trickles in the sink and eggs simmer in the pan, and for the first time since the two young women arrived, Abby’s mind catches up and finally considers what Clarke said as she opened the door. 

“Raven, you know you're always welcome, but why do you need a place to stay?” 

The silence continues, slightly uncomfortable now, and Abby is afraid she said the wrong thing. Clarke looks at Raven who looks like she can't speak, and she grabs the knife and begins to slice the tomatoes. 

“Finn…” Clarke hesitates. 

“Oh, I heard,” Abby says, the interruption meant as a help so Clarke didn't have to speak of Finn's death and Raven didn't have to hear of it. “I'm sorry, Raven.” Abby itches to comfort her, but now is not the time. She knows Raven picks up projects to cope, this brunch obviously being one of them. 

The wordless twitch of a shoulder is the only thing Raven is able to communicate, and Abby understands. 

“I have to leave again tonight, so Raven will stay here as long as she needs to,” Clarke says, frowning at a tomato in her hand. 

“Where are you going?” Abby wants to know. 

“Back to where dad is from,” Clarke says, wondering if Heda's world has a name at all, and Abby holds her breath subconsciously, her mind not able to keep up with her thoughts. “He spoke the truth about everything, mom. Do you think I hit my head too?”

“No, honey… I… No. I didn't know better then and I made a decision based on that. Don't think for a second I don't regret it, Clarke,” Abby says. She pauses to control the anger on the rise. It's entirely directed towards herself and she doesn't want Clarke to think she's mad at her. “If I could, I'd go back in time and change it. I'd believe what Jake said, even though he rambled like a madman, and–”

“What did happen, mom? When did he tell you?” Clarke puts down the knife and looks at Abby. 

Abby swallows as she considers Clarke's question. It was a long time ago, but Clarke deserves the truth. So Abby tries to remember. Her words come flowing as a train of thought on the edge of rambling. “He had been acting strange for a couple of weeks. He was secretive and was almost never home. And I confronted him, but he said he had a lot of last minute work to finish. Then he came home one night, his clothes soaked with sweat and he looked like he'd been running from his life. He was scared, Clarke. And I was _terrified_ of learning the truth. He sat me down and gave me the chest and told me about his childhood and how he came here… to this world, and that he chose to stay. He told me–” Abby gasps, holding a hand over her mouth, eyes widening. 

“What, mom. What did he say?” Clarke holds her breath. 

Abby’s eyes grow distant as she tries to remember a ten-year-old memory, the tip of her fingers hovering by the edge of her lips. “He said he'd made a very important discovery, one that concerned you, I don't remember what, Clarke, but he’d spent the past couple of weeks making sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands, he said.”

“What about me,” Clarke interrupts, the second Abby pauses. 

“I don't remember, Clarke… I…” Abby’s eyes flutter with the memory she wants so badly to catch. She sighs impatiently. “No. I only remember the chest. He said only you had the key.” Abby looks at Clarke then, “I'm sorry honey. That's all I remember.”

“Okay,” Clarke sighs, frustration seeping through despite trying her best to stay calm. “How long before he died was this?”

“Clarke,” Abby’s voice is laced with pain only a widow knows; a widow who doesn't want her daughter to hurt more than necessary. 

“Mom, please!”

“They day before,” Abby says. She's heartbroken and relives the nightmare of losing her husband all over again. 

“Wait. Did he come to you before or after he spoke with Jossiah?” 

“Jossiah?” A lack of recognition paints crinkles on Abby’s forehead. 

“Tall, blonde, nearly white hair, light blue eyes… He has a scar here,” Clarke runs a finger down her face. 

“Oh, Josh.” Abby’s face transforms almost comically into remembrance, then a frown deeper than before. “He spoke to Josh on that day?”

“After school,” Clarke nods. “I went home to pick up a few things on my way to Rae’s and saw them talking outside the house.”

The lack of noise in the kitchen is unbearable now. It's all consuming as Raven has turned off the stove and no one speaks, their heads full of puzzle pieces to be put back together. 

“Who is Josh?” Clarke asks. 

“Jake was always vague about him. A friend. They worked on projects together sometimes.” Abby pauses. She looks to her daughter who holds her stronger than Abby every remembered. Clarke looks uncompromising in her search for information on… Abby doesn't know what Clarke is in search for, but if Abby had anything else to add, she would, so she says, “that's all I know, Clarke. Never really spoke with him. I got the feeling he wasn't very sociable.”

Shifting from a standing position with defying hands on her hips, Clarke takes a seat by the kitchen island, head resting in her hands. “I need to think,” she mumbles to no one in particular. Her left palm burns uncomfortably against her forehead, so she splays it out on the cold marble counter in front of her and begins the task of untangling the bits and pieces in her mind trying figure out how they fit together. A chronological order sounds like a good place to begin. 

“So dad discovered something about me, and he was acting weird for a couple of weeks,” Clarke begins, still not speaking to anyone, but saying things out loud makes them real and Clarke needs the real to hang on to. “He went back to visit Heda. He visited Lexa two weeks before… Why…” Clarke’s monologue internalizes to a jumble of thoughts once more. It couldn't be a coincidence. Could it? 

“And he talked to Jossiah the day before the accident,” Clarke forces her mind back on track. “And that night he came home, scared, and gave you the chest.” Clarke doesn't look up for confirmation, but a small “yes” falls from Abby’s lips. 

Clarke sighs, squeezes her eyes shut. Something doesn't add up. If Jossiah was a friend of her dad's, then why did Lexa and Anya insinuate he might be involved with his death. Clarke needs to talk to Lexa again, and maybe whatever is inside the wooden chest will help her to the truth too. 

There Clarke sits, lost in the world inside her head while Abby helps Raven with brunch which is eventually announced ready when Abby places a glass of freshly pressed orange juice in front of Clarke. 

Over the kitchen island, Clarke meets her mother’s gaze. 

“Why didn't you tell me, mom?” Clarke's voice is small, not timidly so. Broken, like shards of glass scattered to the winds to never find one another again. 

“I didn't know, Clarke… He told me to tell you when you turned eighteen, but by then I'd convinced myself that Jake was, I don't know, _seeing_ things. Would you have believed me if I’d told you his magical world was in fact real?”

Clarke shakes her head. She wants to say ‘yes’, she wants to give her dad the respect he deserves. But no. Clarke's mind works like her mother's. It's meticulous and analytical. Where her dad didn't let facts hold him back in search of great things, Clarke relies on them. Clarke hates it, but she knows she’d eventually come to the same conclusion as her mother. 

“Are you safe, Clarke, where you're going to?” Abby asks. The concerned mother is almost afraid to make an appearance. 

Clarke nods. “Lexa says I'm more safe there than here, but that's not why I'm going.”

They're all three seated by the kitchen island now. Raven is silently pushing eggs and bacon towards Clarke, and Clarke subconsciously takes her portion onto her plate. She sips on her orange juice and contemplates why she willingly tells her mother about Lexa; whether she’s too tired to hate her right now, or if she’s, simply, tired of hating her altogether. 

“I met dad’s childhood friend,” Clarke says, unable to keep the smile from her lips. Even through the morosity, it’s soft and warm. “His name is Isaac and he carves beautiful things out of wood, just like dad.”

Abby studies her daughter, then. Clarke has her father’s eyes, but it has never been more clear than this very moment. Jake was gentle, even when he was excited or angry. His eyes held a mystery Abby was drawn to. His constant need to chase down the unknown challenged her well-rehearsed routines, and she loved him all the more for it. He made her love to be alive.

Clarke holds the same spark in her eyes. It fills Abby’s heart with warmth, and she only now realizes it has been gone for ten years. It’s bittersweet, and Abby feels guilty.

“I’m not sure how to wrap my mind around this, Clarke, but I’m happy to see you’re embracing it. I’m happy for you.”

Abby’s words are the last words spoken during brunch, and it leaves all three of them to absorb what has been said. It’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it’s been a long time coming.

 

°*°

 

The moon has begun its ascension over rooftops of Polis City. The silver glow seems dull on this night as it penetrates a blanket of clouds. Clarke stands in the doorway, her eyes upon the wet streets, and she wonders if changing back into her borrowed kru clothes was a bad idea after all. Clarke smells petrichor, fresh and delicious, and she angles her closed eyes towards the late evening sky drawing air deep into her lungs. 

“It’s time,” Clarke says, looking at Raven.

“Will you be able to contact me?” 

“I think so. Lincoln might be able to help.” 

“Don’t be a stranger.” 

The two best friends share a melancholic smile, and they linger for another minute or so before Clarke bends to pick up her duffle bag.

Everything is in order. She called the hospital to arrange for a leave. She couldn't tell them if it would be a week or a month or more, but if they had to fire her, she'd deal with it when she came back. Abby wasn't too happy about it, but she understood her daughter’s reasons. 

Clarke pulls Raven in for a hug. The echoes of her heartbeat whispers in her mind. _May we meet again._ But it’s something else entirely that leaves Clarke’s lips when she speaks.

“Let my mom help you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then Clarke turns her back on Raven and walks out into the rain, invisible to her eyes, but soft and cold against her cheeks. As she turns the corner, Bellamy falls into step next to her, hands casually in his black jacket pockets giving her duffle bag a quick glance.

“One would think you were moving in with Heda at the tower,” he says, his voice neutral from any emotion, the hint of a taunt curling his lips.

“Did you just make a joke, Mr. Shield?” Clarke mock gasps.

Bellamy’s chest rumbles with his gentle chuckle, and Clarke wonders what could possibly have happened for him to warm up like this. She likes it, but decides not to dwell on it afraid to say something to close him back up again.

“I’m not moving in. It’s easier to transport the chest like this,” Clarke says, feeling a sudden urge to be very clear that she’s not moving in with Heda and he's crazy to even consider it – _even_ as a joke. “In fact, I’d prefer to not stay in the center of everything.” Her confession takes her by surprise. She never gave it a thought, but now it’s out, it settles in her mind. She feels on display staying at the tower. Everything in Heda’s world is connected to that tower, it seems. 

“Too public?”

“You don't think so?” Clarke says, sarcasm carrying her words. 

Bellamy's lips twitch into another smile. “You should tell her.”

“Demand that Heda upgrades my suite to one with an ocean view far away from a buzzing market place which I'm pretty sure is her pride and joy?”

“I see your point,” Bellamy says, grinning widely. “But you're important to her. If you're not happy, she would want to know.”

“I'll consider it,” Clarke says. 

Bellamy guides Clarke down narrow alleys that all look alike but don't seem familiar at all. At the end of this string of alleys, Lincoln and Octavia appear from the shadows. The four of them climb Tondisi Hill, and Clarke looks to the skies wishing she were able to see the stars one last time before leaving Polis City. It's not for good, Clarke reminds herself. She misses her dad more than she'll miss the stars. With that in mind, she locks her eyes onto a flame engraved into stone. She holds her breath and takes a step forward, Bellamy's hand resting protectively on her shoulder. The world distorts into a blur around her and dark turns light while the nausea builds in her gut. 

Clarke was never one for roller coasters, and she gratefully accepts the tiny bottle Bellamy hands her once they leave the portal field. 

“What now?” Clarke asks.

“You tell me,” Bellamy says. 

“Right,” Clarke says, remembering they're there to follow her, not to tell her what to do. “I need sleep,” she says and walks off towards the tower. 

“Take a break, I have this one,” Lincoln says. The siblings mumble a “sure” sending Lincoln to catch up with Clarke.


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! :)  
> Enjoying your Sunday? 
> 
> I don't know how to explain this, but I'm getting impatient on your behalf... So I decided to merge two chapters into one which means you're getting a 5k words chapter here.
> 
> Clarke is back in Heda's world with the mysterious wooden chest and the intention of learning more about how she connects to this world. As we have focused mostly on Clarke's challenges, you'll soon learn that Lexa has a couple of challenges too. Things are picking up now... Slowly you'll get your answers. You won't learn about the chest in this chapter, but I promise it's just around the corner ;)
> 
> One more thing: I know I add a lot of details to this fic, but if there's anything that doesn't make sense, please do throw your questions at me. I will happily answer unless it's a spoiler. 
> 
> So, for now, enjoy this extra long chapter. Please, let me know what you think <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XVI

 

 

On the ninth floor of Polis Tower, the territory of Heda’s world is carved into the wall. The map is encircled by the sun’s orbit. To the left is Faya Maun and to the right is Biga Woda. Up you’ll find the ice caves and down you’ll find the desert. Centered is Polis Tower. The map holds information on all charted land, where to find all established quarters, important landmarks, all known populated areas. It is a highly detailed map, updated regularly with any intel of change or additions there may be. One of Indra’s most important tasks is to keep Heda in the loop of what stirs in their world.

“My scouts are reporting unusual activity on the borders,” Indra says tapping an index finger at a spot between Polis Tower and the ice caves. “Here.”

“Unusual activity?” Heda studies the spot under Indra’s finger with eyes on high alert as if the map itself held the answer to her question. 

“Roan is setting up a camp and it appears they are preparing for a long journey.” 

“Roan?” Heda asks, disbelief carrying her words. Roan is Nia’s son and second in command. “Do we know why?”

“No. But my intel has it that they know we have Jossiah.”

Behind Heda’s back, one hand tightens its hold around a wrist. Heda's thunderous eyes find Indra. “How?”

Indra shakes her head. “I am certain he was not seen when we transported him to the dungeon. Which means one of two things. Eith–”

“–Either they knew we would apprehend him, or we have a leak.” Heda says, tightening the clench already settled in her jaw. 

Indra agrees with a silent nod. 

“And you are sure Jossiah was not spotted?”

“Positive, Heda.”

With a thoughtful nod, Heda forces her hands to relax behind her back. She looks at the map on the wall, biting down on thin air as to not speak prematurely. 

“Has a leak been refuted?”

“Not yet. I am working on it.”

“Good. Let me know as soon as you have anything new,” Heda says. “For now, let us assess the possibility that they knew of Jossiah beforehand. What are your thoughts?”

“I do not understand how they would benefit from it,” Indra says scanning the map for inspiration. 

Unusual activity seems to be a common denominator for the issues Heda has had to deal with lately. Heda walks to the balcony, eyes straight ahead but her focus is inwards. Her thoughts are in a knot and Indra’s latest intel is just another unrecognizable piece that may or may not fit the puzzle. 

It could be nothing.

It could be _it_. 

The tall woman with eyes holding a fierceful calm takes a stand next to her leader. They both look towards the borders of Ice Nation. Both women are highly skilled strategists, yet neither of them dare make an assumption about what is going on. 

“Am I paranoid?” Heda asks. 

“Paranoid?”

“I do not trust Jossiah.”

“It is wise of you to never trust that man, Heda.”

“Should I assume he is lying?” Heda looks to her second in command with vulnerable professionalism – if there is ever such a thing. It’s a trust that Heda places on Indra’s shoulders, a respect that Indra has earned giving invaluable advice on crucial matters throughout Lexa’s career as Heda.

“Assume nothing,” Indra says. “I do not doubt that he wants his mark back, but there is one thing he always wanted more: his freedom. Jossiah never found a way to unite the two. I doubt that will ever change. No matter how much he wants it.”

“I understand,” Heda says. She fights valiantly against the discouragement that wants to pull her shoulders towards the ground. Her chin is heavy with frustration, and she fights that, too. “This is dangerous, Indra.”

A silent nod from Indra in agreement. 

“Prepare for Roan’s visit. I expect him to bring his mother's riot.”

“Sha, Heda.” 

With eyes showing no signs of anything but control, Heda shares a departing nod with Indra. She spins on her foot and walks out of the room with confident steps. Under the surface is a rapid river, an atrocious current of thoughts and theories and unanswered questions that keep growing in numbers. 

If Jossiah is speaking the truth, he knows who is behind the assassination attempt. If he is lying, he might be doing so to bluff his way to get his mark back – if that's his motive at all. His banishment is something Heda can't and won't revoke, thus it does not matter if he lies or not. What really matters is _why_ he's lying about knowing Jake Griffin. What _intrigues_ Heda is how he lost his cool for a minuscule fragment of a second by the mentioning of his name. Heda needs to know why. More specifically, Heda needs to know if Jossiah knows about what Jake discovered before he died; if he knows about the mark of Praimfaya. 

There's something about the timing that worries Heda. In the wake of the latest events, a banished kru man notoriously known for being unreliable finds his way to Heda. He's a man who claims to have intel on the assassination attempt, and a man who might be linked to the death of Jake Griffin. It irks Heda. It's hard to pinpoint the reason except she doesn't like the timing. 

And now Roan plans a visit to the tower? 

Heda needs to think. 

“Who died?” The appearance of Anya's voice startles Lexa.

“Anya! Oh, no one,” Lexa says, not quite sure how she managed to descend the stairs and leave the tower without noticing. 

“Then what's with the grave look?”

Lexa stops. It's hard to simultaneously walk and think and speak. It's a struggle to untie the knot in her mind and look at Anya at the same time. Lexa forces her hands to link behind her back. It's easier to slip back into a conscious state that way. 

“Roan is on his way here,” Lexa says. “Too many things are happening at once and I do not like it.”

“Roan?” Anya copies Lexa's previous disbelief. “Did his mother send him?”

Lexa shrugs and then sends Anya a tired look. “Indra will handle the preparations. I need to focus on Jossiah.”

“Let him rot to death,” Anya offers dryly. It earns her a glare to which Anya simply shrugs. 

“I need to know what he knows about Jake Griffin. I need to know if he knows about the–” Lexa’s lips snap shut as she looks around. There's no one close enough to overhear them, still she steps closer to Anya to whisper her next words. “If Jossiah knows about Clarke's mark, it changes everything.”

“How would he know about the mark?” 

Lexa's eyes fall to the ground beneath her feet. Right. She never told anyone about her talk with Titus. These are things not even Anya are supposed to know about. Or Indra. Lexa needs to be better. She cannot slip. Not now. There are too many things at stake, too many things that can go wrong. 

“Lexa,” Anya pleads not to satisfy her curiosity, but to help carry Lexa's burden. “You know where my loyalty lies.”

“I do not doubt your loyalty, Anya. Not as my guard, nor as my sister.”

“I want to help.”

“I know. And I do not want to take it for granted.” 

Anya remembers the day Lexa woke up with a burning mark on her wrist. She remembers how terrified she was – not of the unknown, but of failure and of being the reason for disappointment. Lexa was barely a young woman, the youngest ever known to have held the title of Heda. 

Anya sees that same fear swim in Lexa's eyes now, and it breaks her heart. 

“You are Heda,” Anya says as she places her hands on Lexa's shoulders. “Chosen by the legend of Praimfaya to lead our people down the path of peace and justice. You are _chosen_ , Lexa. You are strong, both in body and in mind. Your energy is meant to do great and you cannot fail because you are _chosen_. Put your faith in Praimfaya and trust that whatever you decide, it is the right choice.”

Lexa pushes trembling air through her nose, slowly gaining back control of the turmoil in her mind. She reaches with a hand to grasp Anya's arm, palm against forearm, the other finding the back of Anya's neck. Their foreheads meet and rest in this position long enough for Lexa to lean on Anya's wisdom. 

“Thank you.” Lexa murmurs. For a moment in time she allows Heda and Lexa to become one. She allows Heda to stand tall and vulnerable amidst the daily life of her people. She allows Anya to be her sister, her emotional mentor, not just her guard. 

“Go, Lexa. Go meditate. I will send for you if you are needed.”

“I cannot–”

“–Yes, you can. Indra is on Roan, Jossiah needs no watching, and I'll take care of Clarke when she comes back.”

“If–”

“–I will send for you.” Anya cuts her off. When Lexa sighs, Anya knows she has won. 

“Very well. Thank you, Anya.” Lexa takes a step back. In Anya's eyes she sees the maternal care that once saved Lexa, and the pride that always motivated her to be good, better. Her best. Without Anya's support, Lexa would've never transformed into Heda. At least that's what she tells herself. Anya would disagree. Anya believes Lexa was born for this. All Anya had to do was occasionally remind her of the fact. Lexa did all the work by herself. But Anya also knows, that Lexa’s humility is one of many reasons as to why she’s successful as Heda.

As Lexa turns around to go home, she sees Clarke walk down Tondisi Hill with Lincoln in tow. 

The decision of meeting Clarke halfway is not a conscious one; it’s Lexa’s legs doing the walking. The furrow between her eyes dissolves entirely on its own, and the smile that she fights to not pull at her lips settles in her heart as an unsteady beat she cannot control. 

“Hello Clarke,” Lexa greets her. “How was your journey?”

“I’m not a fan of the portal,” Clarke says, her words followed by a grimace that tells Lexa it was an unpleasant journey back as well. 

If Clarke says anything else, Lexa doesn't hear it. Raindrops are fresh in Clarke's hair, a pellucid shimmer of minuscule pearls, and it captures Lexa's entire attention. Rain is rare in Heda's world, and just like the stars in the night sky, raindrops take Lexa's breath away. 

“Lexa?”

“Yes?” 

“Are you okay?”

Lexa nods, clears her throat, and says, “yes.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, not quite believing Lexa’s words, but understanding that _Heda_ might not want to be called out on it. At least not in this open, public space.

“How was home?” Lexa asks.

“It was...” A frown settles between Clarke’s eyes, and it’s heavy and unwelcome. It contains Raven’s pain and her mother’s secrets, and somewhere behind all of that, Clarke knows she’ll find her own shattered mess. But she’s too tired to embrace it now, too exposed to let herself unravel. “Can we pick this up later? I haven’t slept since…” Clarke’s frown deepens. The misperception of time is at play again.

“Of course, Clarke. I also have matters to attend to. I will be gone for a while, but if you need anything let Anya know.” 

“Okay.” 

“Sleep well, Clarke,” Lexa says, nodding a gentle goodbye. When Clarke returns the gesture, Lexa smiles before walking away. She stops not ten steps away and calls, “oh, and Lincoln?”

“Yes, Heda?” Lincoln stands a bit taller when Heda addresses him. That’s what pride looks like, Clarke thinks.

“Debrief with Anya and then join Octavia and Bellamy on their break. I appreciate your assistance on this mission, thank you.”

Clarke recognizes Heda’s voice and Lexa’s mild eyes. She sees Heda’s strong posture with hands behind her back and Lexa’s smile on her lips. It’s the first time since she tended Heda’s gunshot wound that Clarke sees both of them at the same time: the leader and the young woman, the juxtaposition of strength and gentleness. This unique blend fascinates Clarke, and she wonders if Lexa is always like this, if the reason Clarke never noticed before is because Clarke simply didn’t know her.

“Sha, Heda. Mochof.” Lincoln says. He accepts Heda’s present with a nod.

As Lexa walks towards the distance, Clarke contemplates whether or not to voice her thoughts. In the end, her curiosity wins – it always does.

“Is she always like this?” Clarke asks, as they walk towards the tower.

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know… Smiling?”

It elicits a breathy laughter from Lincoln, and Clarke feels embarrassment for asking, not quite sure why.

“Usually, no,” Lincoln says. “Being a good leader is important to her, something she takes seriously. But if you want to see her smile, take her to the plaza. She likes to interact with her people, she likes to see them thrive.”

The image of Lexa weaving through the crowd in the plaza floods Clarke’s mind: Lexa talking to the vendors, sharing smiles with her people, and teaching young ones to control their energy, just to name a few. She finds herself smiling at the memory. She finds herself caught up in a daydream when suddenly Anya stands before her, piercing brown eyes a deep contrast to the tender emeralds in her mind.

“Welcome back,” Anya says, and Clarke almost believes she cares.

“Thank you,” Clarke says, trying to mask the surprise.

“How did it go?” Anya addresses Lincoln.

“According to plan. No troubles.”

“Good.” Anya looks from Lincoln to Clarke. “You look tired,” she says, the tone of her voice almost not intimidating at all.

Clarke nods in agreement. “I am. I’m heading up to my room to rest,” she says. Clarke looks up at the tower feeling discouraged by the memory of the many stairs.

Without another word, Anya reaches to take Clarke’s duffle bag and begins walking towards the tower. Nonplussed, Clarke says goodbye to Lincoln and hurries to catch up with Anya. The stairs are evil, and Clarke wishes Nyko was here to do that trick that made her catch her breath faster. When she reaches the door to her suite on the eighth floor, Anya has already placed her bag in the room. 

“If I’m not outside in the hallway, I’m either upstairs or on the ground floor. Please, don’t leave the tower without telling me,” Anya says. Despite the commanding and slightly condescending tone, Clarke reckons this is Anya being civil and polite.

If the silence that follows is uncomfortable, Anya doesn’t care. She waits patiently for Clarke to confirm she heard her. 

“I promise, Anya. Thank you.” 

Then Anya leaves the room, closing the door behind her, and Clarke is utterly alone in a soundless vacuum. It washes over her like a sticky mass, and it clings to her, suffocating her. It squeezes her lungs and stings her eyes. Reverently, she welcomes the tears. It hurts differently than the pain she brought back with her, and different is good. 

The bed is too big and not hers. Clarke wants to say she's too tired to care, but that's not true. Clarke feels small again, and she wishes she had a place that’s hers where she can go and be invisible. 

What she wouldn't give to have place like Lexa's hobbit home…

Sleep does find Clarke eventually, but not before she unwillingly gets up to pull the curtains shut. The disguise of nighttime covers Clarke in a blanket that helps dull the pain. Before she drifts off she promises herself she'll feel bad about leaving Raven in the morning. 

 

°*°

 

The darkness doesn't bother Jossiah. It’s familiar. It has grown in his heart since he was just a kid who refused to do what the adults told him to do. It nurtured him when his parents were murdered, and it comforted him when he was banished. Darkness is the one thing that never let him down. 

Darkness is his friend. 

There's no way to tell how much time has passed in this dungeon hole. In his mind it's certainly a lot less than Heda thinks, because time is broken here. A young Jossiah has spent too many days in this dungeon, enough to easily shrug it off. 

Darkness is his friend and time does not exist. The many reprimands he has received from Indra during the years are pitiful. The dungeon taught Jossiah to be patient. It did not teach him manners because he already knew manners and he'd decided they were not for him. He'd also decided that Heda's world wasn't for him either. It came long before he was banished, he just didn't recognize it at the time. 

Yet, here he is, back in the dungeon, because he sold his soul to the devil. Why? They promised him his freedom back, but he doesn't care about the stupid kru mark. He wants revenge. He wants Heda to crash and bleed. Because Heda made _him_ bleed. He doesn't care which Heda. Heda is Heda. It's a symbol, and thus, Heda's downfall will be symbolic, too. 

It's almost time to plant the next seed. He almost ruined it when Heda asked about Jake Griffin. Jossiah is a good liar, but not perfect. So he welcomes the darkness Heda left him with. The longer it lasts the better. 

Now, he waits. 

 

°*°

 

Nightmares find Clarke again. The same damn nightmares. The monochromatic wall of fire seems taller, burning stronger this time. It leaves cold sweat on her skin and sucks the air out of her lungs. Finn's lifeless stare follow her wherever she goes. He's not anywhere near the fire, but it blends together, it all swirls together. Finn accuses her again, makes her an accomplice of murder. Raven lies on the couch, her eyes void of any emotion as she tells Clarke to go to hell and never come back. It settles in Clarke's heart like a poisonous fog, it shoots pain into her veins. 

It's too much. 

Clarke is hurting both physically and mentally. When Finn's staring eyes are consumed by hungry flames, and Raven collapses on her knees in front of him crying out his name, Clarke wakes up gasping, silently screaming. She shoots up into a sitting position, staring into the darkness of her borrowed room. It takes will to recognize where she is. Her shirt is soaked through, she shivers from the cold air caressing her back. 

On wobbly legs, Clarke fights the dizziness as she walks to the dresser. With fumbling hands she changes into clean, dry clothes. Time is still a flimsy thing, although she knows her body needs more sleep. Knowing full well the nightmares will find her again, she goes to the bathroom to check the small cupboard for a bottle of dreamcatcher; she could use it right now. Amongst the tiny bottles, Clarke finds two with honey-colored liquid. She can't tell if they're the same, or if any of them are what she needs. The fear of facing another nightmare makes her consider the risk of drinking something she doesn't know what is, doesn't know the effect of… No, she's not that desperate. 

Clarke swallows her pride. 

Outside in the hallway she finds Anya leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. An involuntary sigh of relief escapes Clarke's lips at the prospect of not having to seek her out elsewhere. Anya turns her head to look at her with the callous glare she always seem to carry around Clarke. Except, this time Clarke _thinks_ she sees a spark of worry. Well, curiosity at least. It's progress. 

“Are any of these a dreamcatcher?” Clarke holds up one bottle with honey-colored liquid in each hand. 

With effortless elegance, Heda's most trusted guard pushes herself off the wall and walks up to Clarke. Only at full stop does she look from Clarke's eyes to the bottles in such a lazy manner that Clarke suspects her to not care at all. 

“Both are.”

“Oh, uh. Thank you.”

Clarke feels small under Anya's gaze. Awkward. Like a child being chastized by the babysitter who _so_ didn't sign up for this. And to make matters worse, Clarke begins to retreat back inside, like a dog with its tail between its legs. Clarke even has to bite back the urge to apologize for the intrusion.

“How bad is it?” 

With one hand still on the door knob, Clarke turns to face Anya again. Not sure if what she just heard happened inside her mind, Clarke blinks, dumbfounded. 

“The nightmares,” Anya says, when Clarke doesn't reply. 

“Uhm,” Clarke mumbles, and it's barely a sound. It hurts to swallow, so she clears her throat. The expectation in Anya's eyes makes Clarke drop her gaze to the floor. 

There are no words to explain that every time Clarke wakes up from a nightmare a part of her dies – however small it may be, it feels like the most important part. Clarke doesn't know how to explain that the thought of going back to sleep terrifies her. She's afraid she'll see Finn's lifeless eyes again. Or Raven's disappointment. Or that stupid fire that physically hurts her even in her sleep. 

The guilt makes her sick.

It's a lie. She knows it's lie. The words _do_ exist. They find each other like magnets in her mind, but she can't voice them because then they'll become truth. And when they become truth, she can no longer escape them.

The intangible illusion of hope is her lifeline.

And it breaks her heart.

Anya observes Clarke with patient eyes. Lips form mute sentences, tired shoulders seem too heavy, there's a tinge of something dark flashing behind downturned eyes. Anya recognizes the guilt; it's something she has spent a long time learning to suppress herself. 

“His death is on my hands,” Anya says. “ _My_ hands. I know you feel guilty. I see it in your eyes.” 

Clarke's lungs expand with desperation, frowning eyes meet Anya's. Clarke wants to tell her that no, it's Clarke's fault alone, but Clarke still can't speak. 

“Take the dreamcatcher. Rest up. And when you wake up, you hate me,” Anya says, her voice growing hoarse, a tinge of anger. “Hate _me_ , Clarke. Because _I_ killed him. Not you.”

They stare at each other, eyes wide, holding their breath. Anya's jaw tightens as tears spill from Clarke's eyes. 

For some reason, Clarke can't hate Anya. It's the most obvious thing in the world; Anya did her job, she kept Heda safe. Clarke _understands_. 

“Either let go,” Anya says, a strangled whisper, “or hate me.”

Those are the last words spoken across the threshold to Heda's suite before Clarke steps back inside. Anya stands like a statue staring at the door long after it swings shut. She waits till the guilt is buried once more, then she takes a step back and watches Heda's door disappear in front of her. Knowing she's alone, she sighs and lets her head drop forward.

This wasn't supposed to happen. 

Anya expects Lexa won't be happy when she tells her. She has every right not to be. 

 

°*°

 

A fog, thick and heavy, engulfs Lexa robbing her of her sight. It’s muggy and damp, and it clings to her naked skin where pearls of sweat proliferates until gravity claims their inevitable downfall. Incense hangs in the smoky air, pungent, intruding Lexa's nostrils. Somewhere an undefinable distance away, a drum beats a monotonous rhythm that Lexa barely registers; there's no way to tell if it exists in the real world or only in a corner of her mind. 

A trance has overtaken Lexa's mind, detached it from her body. She doesn't exist in this time and space, certainly not in this sweat lodge. 

The ritual clears her mind. 

It requires full concentration from beginning to end, and it demands that she isn't disturbed. As the awareness of her physical self fades away, the chaos in her mind will stand crystal clear. She'll be able to peel off the layers, one by one, until irrelevance no longer befouls what's really important. 

The essence of truth. 

Lexa has performed this ritual many times, but this is the first time she doesn't quite understand the result. 

The trance takes her back to the night she was shot. Specifically the very moment where Clarke presses her palm against her wrist and the mark is activated. Lexa can literally feel it in her blood; their connection is irrevocable. It holds an energy much more powerful than anything Lexa has ever imagined. It holds potential that has yet to be unleashed – and it _will_ be unleashed. This Lexa is certain of. 

Clear in her mind, Lexa sees Clarke's blue eyes. It brings her calm amidst the chaos. This Lexa is certain of, too. 

How it connects to the current disturbances, Lexa can't say. Not yet. 

When her eyes start stinging – when her mind again connects with her body – she knows the ritual is done. Slowly, she rises from her cross-legged position, stretches her back, and grabs the towel she knows hangs on the wall next to the door. 

Lexa exits the lodge and looks to the orange skies. The most of a sunraun, she's been away from her duties. She breathes in the cold air; it's slow and deep and cleansing. She wraps herself in the towel, but stops in her tracks as she sees the basket left just outside the door. Lexa reaches down to lift off the cloth only to reveal a bottle of one of Nyko’s replenishing brews as well as things to eat. Lexa smiles as she sees the flameberries. Only Anya knows where Lexa is, and Lexa makes a mental note to repay Anya the favor. 

Lexa drinks the brew and grabs a handful of flameberries which she snacks on as she walks to the river to freshen up. This place is another one of Lexa's well kept secrets – and the only reason Anya allows that she goes here alone. 

The river flows slowly here. Lexa drops the towel on a large rock by the water’s edge and steps into the river. She hisses at the coldness that envelops her body as she sinks into the water. It's warmer closer to the tower, she knows, but the seclusion of this place is necessary to make sure she isn't disturbed. 

She dips her hair back, and stretches her body to float on the surface. The rippling of water echoes in her head, calm and gentle. Clarke's blue eyes find her again, and she wonders if she hasn't fully escaped the trance yet. She pushes back her thoughts to focus on the water. Only when her body reaches the cool temperature of the river does she get back up. 

With the towel wrapped around her once more, she goes back to the lodge. There's a tiny shed behind it from which she picks up dry clothes. She pulls an olive-colored long-sleeved shirt over her head, not yet ready to put on Heda's colors. She'll allow herself another ten minutes, enjoying the contents of the basket. Meanwhile, the corners of her mind finally accepts Clarke's part in this. Deep inside, from the place only the trance can reach, she _feels_ Clarke. Something tells her that Clarke isn't the cause of the problem, but she'll play an important part of the solution. 

All flameberries are long gone. Lexa gets up, stretching her back once more. With a clear mind, an empty basket in one hand, and Heda's coat in the other, Lexa walks up the river towards the tower. Only when she reaches populated areas does she pull on the coat. 

The color red hangs from her shoulder as she steps onto the plaza by the tower. Her body needs rest, but her mind is too wound up, her senses still heightened from the trance. It's something that becomes very clear the moment her eyes find Clarke in the crowd, her smile shining a little bit brighter than Lexa remembers. The connection, that feeling that Clarke is very important, strikes her again. It's overwhelming in a way Lexa can't define, and she has to swallow the dryness in her throat before she's able to walk up to her. 

“How did it go?” Anya's voice catches Lexa before she reaches Clarke. 

Slightly confused, Lexa looks from Clarke a few vendors away to Anya who cut her off. Deliberately, it seems. 

“Clarke wants to talk to Isaac. You can tell me about your meditation while we wait,” Anya explains. 

“Oh, uh,” Lexa looks at Clarke again, then frowns. “Is she okay?”

“She blames herself for the death of the skai man, the nurse,” Anya says. “I told her it's my fault. I told her to hate me instead.”

Wide-eyed, Lexa snaps her head back towards Anya. 

“I was selfish,” Anya says, interrupting whatever Lexa was about to say. “I killed him. I deserve to be punished.” 

They stare at one another. No one blinks, no one breathes. Anya fights to keep her emotions at bay, but Lexa sees right through her. She understands Anya's need to carry the burden, but more than anything she understands why Clarke feels guilty. Lexa lives with the same kind of guilt every day. 

“You cannot take her pain away, Anya. She has to want it. She does not–” Lexa looks away, clenching her jaw to keep her own emotions at bay. 

Anya closes her eyes, disappointed that she didn't make the connection herself. With a feeble voice, she says what Lexa isn't able to. “She blames herself, not for his death, but because she couldn't safe him.”

Lexa nods, her eyes finding Clarke by Isaac's vendor stall. They're both laughing at whatever Isaac is telling her. Based on the way he gestures with excited arms, Lexa suspects he's telling her stories from his childhood, stories about Jake Griffin. It brings a soft smile to Lexa's lips, it doesn't go unnoticed by Anya. 

“What's up with you?” Anya asks.

“What do you mean?” Lexa forces her eyes back to Anya, a thoughtful frown between her brows. 

“Nevermind,” Anya says. Now is not the time to tease Lexa about the so very clear affection she holds for _the blond doctor_. “You never told me, how did your meditation go?”

Lexa sighs. “It told me to focus on Clarke.”

A victorious smile spreads on Anya's face. 

“It is not something to smile about, Anya,” Lexa scolds. Her eyes hold the force of Heda, but her voice is not unlike a little sister incapable of fighting off the obnoxious older sibling. 

“It told you to focus on Clarke,” Anya repeats, adding fuel to Lexa's annoyance. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, in a manner that's meant to end the discussion. 

“What does that mean?”

“She is the solution to a problem I have yet to decipher. I think it means I need to mentor her.”

When Anya doesn't stop smiling, Lexa shakes her head and turns to walk away. She gives Anya a sideways glance over her shoulder to give her one last command. “Tell Clarke to come see me when she is ready.” Channeling Heda once more, she walks towards the tower, head held high, but with that overwhelming sensation fluttering under her ribcage once more.


	17. XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey :)
> 
> I am so happy to finally be able to share this chapter with you. It's one of my favorites, and I really, really hope you guys like it, too.
> 
> I just finished drafting chapter 25 (thus entering the beginning of the end... but that won't make sense to you just yet). This story is very hard for me to write, the world building is really testing me, and your nice comments make the struggle a whole lot more fun . So as always, thank you for reading <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XVII

 

 

When Clarke goes to find Lexa on the ninth floor, she no longer carries a heavy heart. The dreamcatcher made sure that Clarke had a good sleep, and in turn, her rested mind made sure that she wasn't haunted by her demons – at least not for the time being. 

With the wooden chest tucked under one arm, Clarke knocks on the door with her free hand, not sure she's welcome to just barge in.

“Come in,” Lexa’s voice calls from inside. 

Upon entering the room, Clarke finds Lexa facing the wall, hands linked at the small of her back. She's wearing her black coat with Heda's color on her shoulder, and Clarke is momentarily lost in the way it hugs her slender figure. 

“How are you today, Clarke,” Lexa asks, her eyes glued to the wall as if she'd lose what she was looking at if she removed her eyes, even just for the briefest of moments. 

“I'm okay,” Clarke says, as she walks to take a stand next to Lexa. “How are you?”

It’s a rare thing for Lexa to have someone ask about her well-being. The tone in Clarke's voice makes it very clear that it's not just politeness, that she genuinely means it. Surprised, Lexa's eyes snap to Clarke's, and Lexa is fully aware that she's supposed respond, but it’s not an easy task when her vocabulary has been stolen. 

Nothing has ever rendered Lexa speechless the way Clarke's deep, blue eyes have. It's not the color – well, not _just_ the color – it's the stories they hold, the compassion, the curiosity, the way Clarke in a very short amount of time has embraced her heritage. It's the way Clarke's eyes shine a little brighter every day. Clarke might not see it herself, not yet, but it's clear to Lexa that Clarke has come a long way. It's the way Clarke has redirected her stubbornness to move forward instead of holding her back. It's an admirable feat, one that will get her far – further than most – and Lexa supposes that this is one of many reasons Praimfaya chose her. 

“Lexa?” 

Lexa blinks. That's right, Clarke asked her something. “I am fine, Clarke. Thank you.”

“You sure?” Clarke smiles, and Lexa thinks perhaps that sparkle in her eyes is amusement. 

“I am,” Lexa smiles back, her eyes never leaving Clarke's.

“So,” Clarke says, feeling a sudden need to hide a blush, and she averts her eyes to look at the wall, “the entire wall is a map? I can't believe I didn't notice before.”

With gentle awe, Lexa watches Clarke take in the details of the map while letting a finger walk curiously from Faya Maun along the curves of the river of fire until it reaches Polis Tower. 

“My dad told me about this. Is it really fire?” Clarke says. 

“Yes.”

Clarke leans in closer to study the details of the map. Her eyes roam every corner, every symbol she assumes to be trees and houses and the tower in the middle, and also those symbols she can't guess what mean. 

“What are you looking for?”

“He talked about a place with glowing butterflies… Do you know it?”

“Here.” Lexa points to a spot southeast of the tower. “There are many butterfly fields, but I am sure this is the one your father spoke of. It is close to where he lived as a young one. If you want… I can take you there.”

“I would love to,” Clarke says smiling softly as she stares at the spot under Lexa's finger. 

As if struck by lightning, Clarke becomes aware of the deadweight under her arm. “Oh, I came here to give you this,” Clarke says, holding out the chest for Lexa to take. 

With careful hands, Lexa accepts the chest she only now just notices, and she carries it to a table on which she gently places it. Lexa studies it with wide, excited eyes and gentle fingertips. “It is beautiful, Clarke. Did your father make this?”

“Yes. I remember him making it. It didn't have the mark, then… Or, well, maybe I couldn't see it then.” It's a thought that never occurred to Clarke until now. She wouldn't be surprised if that were the case. 

“Maybe,” Lexa says, running a fingertip along the infinity symbol, well, the two connected loops. “Is it dark or light?”

“Dark,” Clarke says, hesitant, perplexed by what Clarke assumes to be a rhetorical question. 

“Yes,” Lexa hums. “It is light to me.” Lexa then looks at Clarke who's staring at her palm – a the light symbol in her hand – clearly thinking hard about something. “And you tried to open it?”

“Mhm, I pressed my hand against it. I thought maybe the mark was the key,” Clarke explains. 

“It is.”

“It is?” Clarke ask, and Lexa nods once. “Then why can't I open it? Is it because I don't have enough… energy?”

“It made you sick?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me…” Lexa trails off. She presses her own hand against the chest, only for a second, and in that second Clarke sees the same red glow that appeared when _she_ tried to open it. “Oh,” Lexa then says. “Yes. Clarke, I know how to open it, but first I want to show you something.”

Lexa looks at Clarke with bright eyes and pride on her lips, a smile that grows wider the more Clarke's brows furrow. 

“I want you to try and open it again. It is just like the light stone, but this time I need you to let go the second you meet resistance. Okay?”

“Uh…”

“It will not hurt you. Not this time, I promise. The resistance means it feeds on your energy because the key is not complete. That is why you get sick. It is a defense mechanism,” Lexa says, her next words spoken with an excitement that reminds Clarke of her dad. “It is brilliant. Your father was a brilliant man.”

Clarke is only able to nod.

“Do you trust me, Clarke?”

“Yes.” Clarke doesn't hesitate, and it takes her by surprise. 

“Give me your hand,” Lexa murmurs, holding out her own, and Clarke doesn't hesitate to obey either. 

“Now what,” Clarke breathes, her throat dry, Lexa's hand so very soft against her own. 

“I'm a light stone and I'm bleeding,” Lexa says, her voice as soft as her skin. 

Clarke smiles, eyes never leaving Lexa's, as she sends off a dose of energy, feeling the gentle timbre between their palms. 

“Perfect,” Lexa smiles back, “now heal the chest.”

With thoughtful determination and that stubborn crease between her brows that Lexa has come to adore, Clarke stares at the chest. She rests her palm on it, feeling the edges and curves of the carved mark against her skin. She takes a deep, calming breath. 

“Remember to let go when it fights you,” Lexa says, her voice merely a distant whisper.  
Clarke’s hand glows red against wood. She feels in control knowing exactly how to activate her energy. It gives her the confidence she needs to let go the moment it feels wrong. It's easy. The tingling she usually feels when using her energy is a violent rumble in her veins. Knowing what it means, Clarke swears she can feel her strength being sucks out of her. Literally. 

“Good,” Lexa says. “That sensation right there? Whenever you feel it, it means you do not have enough energy, or the right kind of energy. This is one way to balance your energy.”

“Okay,” Clarke nods. 

“Ready to open the chest?” Lexa asks and Clarke nods. Lexa then places her hand on the chest. “We need to do it together.”

Clarke can't deny she suspected it. Deep down she knew she needed Lexa's help, she just never considered that Lexa would have to be an active part of it. It makes sense, though. With Lexa's stories about Praimfaya and the legend of the combined key, it's the only plausible solution. Clarke has so many questions, still. They are vague in her mind, unspeakable, not because she's afraid of them, but because she simply can't grasp them. Not yet. So for now, she accepts her ignorance, and decides to just follow Lexa's lead. 

When Clarke places her hand next to Lexa's it all comes together. They don't need a countdown, nor do they need a second try. It clicks. It's instinct when they both activate their part of the key, and the red glow is vigorously brighter than before, and the tingling under their skin resonates perfectly.

It lasts only for a second, but in their minds, a lifetime passes. Their minds are attacked by a whirlwind of memories, fragments of moments: childhood memories, favorite moments, tragedies, victories, losses. For a second in time, Clarke understands what it means to be Lexa, and Lexa understand what it means to be Clarke.

The lid of the chest pushes against their hands, but neither of them are able to look at it. Something squeezes around Clarke's lungs, and her instinct is to protect Lexa. 

Lexa… 

Clarke looks to the woman at her side and is meet by wide, terrified emeralds. Lexa’s breathing is shallow, and Clarke feels the pain in her bones. There's something Clarke doesn't understand, something crucial, and she knows the question at the tip of her tongue is one Lexa does not want to hear, but Clarke _needs to know_. 

“Who is Costia?”

“She was mine,” Lexa says, crestfallen, and Clarke _feels_ her walls building up, right in front of her, brick by brick. 

“What happened to her, Lexa?”

Lexa shakes her head, her eyes losing focus. She takes a step back, but Clarke follows her, stopping her with hands on Lexa's arms. 

“Breathe,” Clarke says, moving her hands up Lexa's arms, one hand grabbing at the back of Lexa's neck, the other pressing against Lexa's collarbone. “Lexa, it's okay. You don't have to answer. I'm sorry I asked. Just… Breathe. Slow and steady. Breathe.”

Images of Costia, of her beautiful, innocent Costia flood Lexa's mind. The good memories are tainted by her tragic death, and it's all Lexa ever sees anymore. Lexa wants to run away, leave Clarke here and run away and suppress whatever emotion that lives inside her. But then Clarke's hand squeezes firmly around her neck, and she feels Clarke's hand pressing against her chest - the warmth seeping through her clothes. And she feels safe. Clarke anchors her while the storm raging inside subsides. This burden is too heavy to carry alone, and Lexa does something she never thought she'd ever be able to do; she lets Clarke in. 

“She was killed because she was mine. I… I couldn't save her. I'm not a healer. I couldn't s–” Lexa gasps, squeezes her eyes shut, squeezes out the tears she's held onto for too long, and she lets Clarke envelop her with strong arms. 

A lifeline, that's what it feels like, and Lexa clings to it _so hard_ that her knuckles turn white and her ragged breathing becomes one with Clarke's. 

At first, Clarke allows Lexa the comfort she needs, but it soon becomes a necessity of her own. Because Clarke finally feels purpose in this world. Right here, tethered to Lexa. Not even her healer instinct is this strong, and it terrifies Clarke, so she clings to Lexa, too. 

It's all she can do.

It's all _they_ can do. 

Strength finds Lexa once more, and she steps out of the embrace, one last shaky breath escaping her lungs before she looks at Clarke.

Nothing has ever rendered Lexa speechless the way Clarke's deep, blue eyes have. This, Lexa is sure of. She straightens her spine and links her hands behind her back. It gives her the time she needs to compose herself. “I apologize, Clarke. I–” 

Clarke shakes her head, interrupting Lexa. “Don't. You are allowed to feel things.”

Something inside Lexa wants to tell Clarke, that no, she's can't feel things. To be Heda means to push all feelings aside, that she doesn't have the luxury of showing her weaknesses. Something inside Lexa tells her Clarke would stubbornly disagree with her on the matter, and Lexa is _tired_ , so she looks away, the chest catching her attention. 

“You should look inside,” Lexa says, playing the one card she knows Clarke can't ignore. 

Clarke sees it for what it is; this stoic woman with a burden not unlike Atlas condemned to carry the sky on his shoulders. She has a heart capable of loving so deeply, so completely. Clarke sees it in her eyes, how she _chooses_ to quell that part of her because she thinks it's what needs to be done to keep her people safe. 

It’s ironic, Clarke thinks, because her ability to love in such a grand manner is what makes Lexa a great leader. No, it's tragic, really. It breaks Clarke's heart, but now is not the time for this talk. Instead, she looks at the chest, taking a deep breath. The lid is cracked open by a quarter of an inch, and Clarke touches it with tentative fingers, not quite trusting her eyes. 

The air is too thick to breathe, Clarke’s heart beats with anticipation, the dull thud almost painful in her ears. Lexa steps forward and rests a hand on Clarke's shoulder. “Be strong,” she murmurs, and it's all the courage Clarke needs to lift the lid. 

Leaning forward to get a better look inside the chest, Clarke frowns. Of all the things Clarke expected, of all the things her mind had conjured up of odd things her dad would've left her, _this_ is certainly not it. 

Nothing. 

Nothing except a scrap of paper, a corner piece swiftly ripped off a page. She picks it up, turns it over and there, in her dad’s writing, rushed and sloppy, are seven words. 

Clarke's eyes trail over them, again and again, not quite understanding what she sees. The note reads:

_I love you, Clarke._  
_Trust Lexa._  
_\- Dad._

After having spent so much time anticipating this very moment, Clarke is speechless. Numb. At a loss. Lexa's hand feels like lead on her shoulder, and Clarke wants to pry away from her, except it's the only thing that keeps her grounded right now. Lexa is the only thing that keeps Clarke from breaking down.

“I don't understand,” Clarke says, dropping the piece of paper back into the chest. “I mean, why would he make it so hard to open for… for… this.” Clarke gestures with a hand at the chest. 

“He knew,” Lexa wonders out loud. 

“Knew what?”

“I think… About Praimfaya. He knew I would become Heda,” Lexa pauses and runs a finger along the edges of the chest. “Do you think he made it to make sure we found each other?”

Clarke's mind is a million threads entangled in one big messy knot, and it physically hurts to even _try_ to comprehend just one of them. Clarke shakes her head to clear her mind. She has a million questions, but is interrupted by a muted knock on the door, it sounds more like someone knocking on a wall. 

“Heda?” A male voice calls. 

Lexa's head snaps to the door, then says, “Clarke, close the chest and take it with you downstairs. We need to leave.”

As Lexa moves towards the door, Clarke picks up the chest and rushes after her. Outside the door, a bald man in a cloak awaits, nervous impatience dripping off him. His eyes immediately land on the chest in Clarke's arms, and they roam upwards studying the woman he doesn't recognize. 

“Titus, this is Clarke,” Lexa says, and as an afterthought, she adds, “Jake Griffin’s daughter.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Clarke,” Titus says, bowing before her like he'd bow for his Heda. 

“Thank you. You too,” Clarke says. Unsure if the tension she feels is really there, she reciprocates his smile. 

“Heda,” Titus says, “Indra sent me to inform you that Roan is nearly at the main road. He will be here soon.”

“Thank you, Titus. I will find Indra shortly,” Lexa says, then she turns to address Clarke. “I have matters to attend to. Wait for me in your room?”

“Of course, Lexa. Thank you,” Clarke says. 

As Clarke calls Heda by her civil name, Titus’ eyes fleet between the two women before him. There's a brief flash of disapproval, that doesn't go unnoticed by either of them, and while Clarke doesn't know what to make of it, Lexa fights with every fiber in her body to ignore it. Now is not the time to put Titus in his place. Besides, Lexa saw him eye the wooden chest as if he knew what it was, and if that's the case, Titus could potentially know about Clarke's mark. Lexa needs to find out what he knows, and defending Clarke's use of her civil name – thus admitting to Titus that Clarke is important to her – is not the way to go about it. It's a terrible strategy considering Titus also disapproved of Costia. 

“You're welcome, Clarke,” Lexa says, sharing a greeting nod with her before turning to Titus. “After you,” Lexa gestures for Titus to descend the stairs.


	18. XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...
> 
> ...I wish to say cool things to introduce this chapter, but I'm awfully affected by a long week and a brain that doesn't quite function. 
> 
> So I'll just say this: thank you for all the nice comments on the last chapter. I wish I was able to write faster so I could give you chapters faster, too. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XVIII

 

 

A horn bellows from the plaza below, its tremors settling in Clarke’s chest like an alarm. Not having heard it before, Clarke presumes it’s a signal of sorts, but she can’t tell if it’s good or bad, so she hurries to the balcony hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. 

Below her, the crowd of ant-sized people is moving away from the area in front of the tower to form something akin to a semicircle. In its center, at the foot of the tower, Heda stands with Indra by her side, and ten feet behind them, Anya stands dutifully observing the crowd.

The horn sounds again, the crowd still moving about in a manner that’s most of all… awaiting – at least, not panicky – and Clarke’s curiosity gets the better of her. She places the chest under the bed and races down the stairs only to run into Bellamy on the ground level.

“What’s going on?” Clarke asks.

“I’m not sure,” Bellamy says, his eyes sliding towards what little part of the plaza is visible through the open doors.

“Is it safe to go outside?”

“Of course. I’ll join you. Come this way,” Bellamy says, guiding Clarke outside to take a stand by one end of the semicircle.

As the horn sounds once more, one last time, the buzzing of the crowd dies down to a minimum, a whispery murmur of anticipation. Clarke looks around, noticing that everyone is shifting on their toes, stretching their necks looking for _something_. Clarke does too, except she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to look for, so instead her eyes land on Lexa who’s standing on the highest step of the marble stairs, taller than anyone in the crowd. Clarke watches Indra lean in to tell her something, and Lexa nods, taking a step forward. In a stoic manner Lexa looks upon the crowd, before turning to face the opening not far from where Clarke and Bellamy stands. Lexa locks eyes with Clarke, and Clarke thinks she sees a shade of worry, but it’s gone the second Lexa notices Bellamy is there, too. 

“Oh, here we go,” Bellamy leans down to whisper. “Heda is expecting a guest.”

 _What kind of guest_ , Clarke wants to ask him, because he seems excited about it, and it sort of makes Clarke excited, too. She never gets a chance because out of the corner of her eye, something happens, something that makes the crowd around her jittery and buzzing again. 

From the opening in the crowd which Lexa is facing, a tall, muscular man with long hair drawn back in a ponytail appears. He’s wearing a long coat, a matte, bright grey that seems to vaguely shimmer under the glowing sun. He walks with forced power in his steps, his chest pumped with arrogance, his arms casually hanging by his sides. This man who lifts his chin higher than Heda looks ridiculous, Clarke thinks, but knows better than to voice it. This man is obviously of high importance in Heda’s world. 

A man and a woman follows right behind – same attire and attitude, although more athletic than muscular. Based on their alert eyes, they must be his guards. The three walk up to take a stand in front of Heda, and the man Clarke assumes to be the leader calls out in a clear, unaffected voice.

“On behalf of Nia Kom Azgeda, queen of Ice Nation, I, her son, Roan Kom Azgeda, seek audience with Heda of the united kru.”

“Roan,” Lexa says, giving the man before her a professional smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes and barely pulls at her lips, “we’ve been expecting your arrival.”

“So I see,” Roan says, his calculating eyes roaming the plaza, over the many pairs of eyes curiously aimed at him. He looks to Heda again, raising his eyebrow. “You obviously have a plan for me. Let me hear it.”

Lexa nods. “Very well,” she says, then turns to address the plaza. She gestures with an open hand at the man by her side. “Roan Kom Azgeda has traveled a long a way from his domicile near the ice caves to request an audience, and I will, of course, grant him this wish. It has been a long time since Ice Nation has graced us with their presence, so let us dedicate the next sunraun in celebrations to show our gratitude.”

In the crowd, Clarke feels the low murmurs grow in volume in an instant. The crowd cheers for their Heda, and Clarke feels the excitement bubble under her skin, except she isn’t sure why. 

“What’s going on?” Clarke asks Bellamy. 

“We call it sunraun of gratitude. It’s a full day of festivities, celebrations, music and dancing…” Bellamy makes a gesture with a hand that Clarke reads as _you get the drift_. 

The cheering subsides and Clarke focuses her attention back on Lexa who lowers her currently upheld hand: silence. 

“We will hold audience when sunraun of gratitude is completed. Indra?” Lexa says, giving Indra the cue she was waiting for. 

“Sha, Heda.” 

Indra walks past Lexa and down the marble stairs into the empty space in front of the crowd. Once in place, Indra spins on her heel to face Lexa and the tower. She crosses her hands over her chest and thrusts them downwards in one swift motion to yield a bright red fire. With a forceful thrust towards the top of the tower, Indra sends a stream of red fire to ignite the massive torch that is placed above the ninth floor. 

“Let it begin!” Heda calls, and the crowd erupts in cheers once more. 

Only when Bellamy starts laughing – a deep timbre that rings louder than the cheers – does Clarke realize she’s watching Indra’s show with eyes wide and mouth agape and most definitely looking like a fool if Bellamy’s outburst is anything to go by. 

There’s a fine line between blushing and scowling, and Clarke certainly doesn’t master it. When Bellamy’s second round of laughter erupts, Clarke rolls her eyes looking away. Through the cheering crowd Clarke finds Lexa, and if that’s not amusement dancing on _Heda’s_ lips, then Clarke doesn’t know what is. Under Lexa’s gaze, Clarke blushes a deep crimson that’s impossible to contain, but when Lexa smiles the way she does, Clarke can’t seem to find a reason to care. 

While keeping Clarke’s gaze, Lexa draws her cogwheel mark in the air and thrusts it upwards into the air. Lexa points with one finger motioning for Clarke to look at sky, and as she does, the mark explodes into a million miniature cogwheels that descends slowly, gracefully towards the ground. 

On the marble stairs, Lexa allows herself a brief moment to observe Clarke as the surprise settles in a wide grin on her lips. Knowing Clarke’s safe with Bellamy by her side, Lexa turns to Roan once again. 

“You and your guards have had a long journey, Roan. Rest up, enjoy these celebrations, they are for you, after all. I will be ready for you in one sunraun from now.” Lexa lifts her hand to offer Roan an arm grip which he accepts, but the annoyance of having to wait a full day to bring his request to Heda does not go unnoticed. 

“Mochof, Heda,” Roan says, doing his best at showing his own gratitude, Lexa is sure of it, but Roan was never a good liar. It’s the way he spends an extra second or two before speaking to make sure his voice holds the emotion he _wants_ Lexa to see. 

It pleases Lexa. 

“My apologies, I have matters to attend to. If you need anything during your stay, speak with Indra,” Lexa says before slipping away and back towards the tower. 

 

°*°

 

When Anya enters the room on the ninth floor, she’s met with a rare sight. Lexa is pacing – back and forth, back and forth, like an anxious, caged animal – the sacred stones below her feet a fury of inconsistency. The hands that are usually linked behind her back are now restless at her sides, her eyes fleeting between nothing in particular. 

Anya shuts the door behind her with enough force to snap Lexa out of her haze. The questioning eyebrow is enough to prompt Lexa to speak up. 

“Titus knows of the chest,” Lexa says. 

“And that’s a problem why?”

Looking at the ceiling, Lexa sighs. There comes a time when even the most crucial rule will have to be bent, and this, Lexa believes, is one of those times. She meets Anya’s eyes with a grave look. “This _cannot_ leave the room, Anya.”

“Of course not, Lexa. What’s going on?”

Lexa works her jaw in a small circle as if tasting the words before she speaks, and when she does speak it’s slow, deliberate. “After Clarke healed me, I went to speak with Titus about Jake Griffin. And Titus confirmed my suspicion that Clarke is Jake Griffin’s daughter, and that, before he died, he suspected Clarke to hold the other part of Praimfaya.” 

To some extent, Anya already knows this, and she nods silently to let Lexa know she can continue. 

Lexa’s eyes grow painful as she speaks her next words. “Titus did not tell me about the chest, but when he saw it earlier, I saw remembrance in his eyes, Anya. He _knows_ about the chest.”

“Okay… I don’t understand. Why is this chest important?” Anya furrows her brows. 

“It can only be opened with the combined key of Praimfaya. Jake designed it that way,” Lexa says, giving Anya a pointed look that says _this is highly classified_.

“Wait, you opened it?”

“Yes.”

“What’s in it?”

Lexa shakes her head in a loose, distracted manner, as if she’s still putting together pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit. “It was a note to Clarke. From her father. It looks like he made the chest to make sure we found each other.” 

“Mh,” Anya hums. “And Titus knew?”

“I am unsure of what he knows, but I do know he did not tell me everything.” Lexa’s eyes fall to the stones beneath her feet; the fleeting colors make her frown. “He disobeyed me.”

“And you’re contemplating how to approach the matter,” Anya guesses. 

“I… Yes. Do I force him to speak, or do I trick him to speak,” Lexa contemplates out loud as she starts pacing again. “Do I approach him now, or do I deal with Roan’s audience first?”

Anya waits. She can tell by the way Lexa’s hands grasp at nothing but air that she’s forming a _something_ in her mind; a theory; an idea; a plan. 

“He does not approve of Clarke.” Lexa stops pacing to face Anya, this time with crestfallen eyes. 

“That’s none of his business,” Anya scoffs. 

“I agree, but…” Lexa pauses, hesitates. “Would it be wrong of me to use that against him?”

“What do you have in mind?” Anya asks, intrigued by this sudden change in Lexa’s demeanor.

“Perhaps we need his expertise to open the chest, and perhaps Clarke refuses to let it out of her sight. She will be there when I question him, and you know Titus, he does not cover his true feelings very well. Perhaps, if luck finds me worthy, he will slip up again.”

“Oh, you mean to plant Clarke there to weaken him?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it’s worth a shot. As long as you refrain from claiming he’s lying, and make sure he believes the chest is your motivation, he shouldn’t be able to tell you have him under inspection.”

“That is the idea,” Lexa says, her hands finding rest behind her back. 

“Mh,” Anya hums, tapping her chin with a finger. “Some advice?”

“Of course.” Lexa looks at Anya with curious eyes. 

“Let Clarke in on the plan. You don’t want her to think you’re using her. She’s a big girl, she can handle the truth,” Anya says. 

“Right,” Lexa nods. “Will you get her for me?”

“Of course,” Anya says, already on her way towards the door. 

“Anya?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Sha, Heda.” Anya bows her head, then she’s out the door. 

Needing something else to occupy her mind, Lexa moves to the balcony from where she can see the plaza and her people preparing for these celebrations. Lexa is once again impressed with Indra’s mastermind. Sunraun of gratitude will not only buy her a little extra time to get a head start on whatever Roan is here for; it also works as a distraction for her people while it’s in progress, meaning she can deal with any political matters in the background without causing too much unnecessary attraction. 

 

°*°

 

“It is temporary, Clarke. I will have to remove it again when we return,” Lexa says, as she presses the sacred emblem onto the back of Clarke’s right hand. 

“And we’re going through the portal again?”

“Yes.”

“Lovely,” Clarke mutters dryly. 

An amused smile spreads on Lexa’s lips, a smile she swallows when Clarke shoots her a disapproving look. 

“At least tell me you have those nausea potions for me.”

“If you get sick, I want you to try and heal yourself,” Lexa says, and when Clarke looks like she’s about to object, Lexa holds up a finger to indicate she isn’t done. “You have the tools, Clarke. Make an attempt, is all I ask of you. I do have a nausea catcher if you need one.”

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“I am not forcing you,” Lexa says, “but I do believe you are capable.”

There’s a truth in Lexa’s words that makes Clarke falter; a trust that softens her and fills her with pride. Clarke remembers the teaching session Lexa had with Aden, the way she encouraged him to try, how he’d failed but still walked away believing he’d succeed one day. Clarke remembers the smile on Lexa’s lips. 

Clarke wants to be the cause of that smile; Clarke _wants_ to make Lexa proud.

“Alright, Lexa. I’ll give it a go,” Clarke says, tightening her grip around the chest tucked under her arm. 

While Lexa knows Clarke doesn’t need it this time, Lexa still places a guiding hand at the small of Clarke’s back as they step into the portal field. With a subtle smile, Clarke allows it, but she, too, knows that Lexa really doesn’t have to. 

Arriving at The Sacred Library is a messy affair. Clarke gets sick again, and she does try to heal herself, but is instantly distracted by the sight before her. The library is enormous, and not at all what Clarke was expecting to see. The high ceilings and massive stone arches are dizzying, and it’s not helping at all.

“Well done, Clarke,” Lexa murmurs next to her as she presses a tiny bottle into Clarke’s hand. “Stay strong.”

Clarke gulps down the brew, and as it kicks in, Clarke takes in her surroundings. The library reminds Clarke of an underground church – a refined balance of gloomy and ethereal – relying fully on clusters of light stones to light it up. Along the walls, countless books are side by side on floor to ceiling bookshelves, and Clarke wishes she were able to run her fingertips along the spines of these rare books. 

Clarke feels a _wow_ ready to escape her lips, but she’s too stunned to help it on its way. It’s… _beautiful_ , and so unlike anything Clarke has ever seen, and she twists her head and lifts her gaze to drink it in. 

As they walk down the aisle, moving past shelves on each side, Clarke looks to Lexa. She’s walking like the leader of a nation, with hands linked behind her back and that raised chin no one dares defy. The long black coat is smooth against her figure, Heda’s color hangs proudly from her shoulder. 

Heda. 

Even this version of Lexa is still just _Lexa_ to Clarke. 

“Are you ready, Clarke?” Lexa speaks under her breath, her eyes trained on the shape of Titus at the end of the aisle. 

“No,” Clarke says, a light chuckle, and the soft smile she finds on Lexa’s lips takes her breath away. 

“You have nothing to worry about.”

Lexa’s words are heavy with a promise that, combined with the two of them walking down a long aisle-like hallway in something akin to a church, makes Clarke’s heart raise. It feels intimate, contrary to what this actually is: a deceiving play. Taking a deep breath that Clarke lets linger in her lungs before exhaling, she concludes it’s probably – most likely, no, most definitely – because she’s still not entirely okay after the journey through the portal. 

“Heda.” Titus’ voice snaps Clarke out of her thoughts. 

Lexa ignores how his eyes fleet towards Clarke, and when she stands before him she greets him with a nod. “Titus. I come to ask for your assistance.”

“Oh,” he says, “how may I help?”

“Clarke recently came into possession of this chest,” Lexa makes a hand gesture towards the object in Clarke’s hands, “and she brought it to me thinking I could open it, but I did not succeed. Can you translate the carvings on the lid for us?”

Whereas Lexa masters the art of covert affairs, Titus does not even try to hide the disapproval in his eyes this time. 

“Is there a problem, Titus?” Faux innocence paints Lexa’s voice. 

“Heda, she cannot be here,” Titus says, his eyes on Lexa the whole time, not caring one bit that Clarke can hear him. 

“Do not defy me, Titus. You know very well she belongs here as much as I do, do you not.”

Titus’ eyes widen at the accusation. He looks like a guilty man, Clarke thinks, except she’s not entirely sure what Lexa is accusing him of. 

“I do not know wh–”

“–Enough!” Lexa roars. “Titus, do not lie to me. You know what this chest is, do you not?”

“Yes,” his eyes fall to his feet, his shoulders curling inwards. 

Guilty and ashamed, Clarke would say. 

“Tell me.”

Titus hesitates. 

“Now!” Lexa’s voice is thunder, but except from her lips, she hasn’t moved a muscle since she stood before Titus, exuding calm control. 

“Sha, Heda,” he bows. “Allow me?” He reaches for the chest, but not touching it. 

With a nod from Lexa, Clarke hands it over, and Titus wraps his calloused hands around the wooden chest and carries it to a desk behind him with a care not unlike a mother carrying her child.

“This chest is a puzzle,” Titus says. “I know Jake Griffin crafted it – with assistance from the previous Heda – but I do not know why.”

“What kind of puzzle?” Lexa asks. 

Titus touches a finger to his chin thoughtfully, then taps the same finger against the lid of the chest. “What do you see?”

“The mark,” Lexa speaks. “We both do.”

“Yes,” Titus agrees. “Just one mark, I assume. I see them both, the dark and the light. They are entangled. You need to join forces. Complete the key of Praimfaya.”

“Mh,” Lexa hums, as if this thought had never occurred to her before. “I see. Do you know what it holds? Is it safe to open?”

“I do not know what is on the inside, Heda, but Jake did make it, so one must presume it is safe for Clarke to open it.”

“And that is all, Titus?” Lexa’s eyes challenges him to defy him once more. 

“Sha, Heda.” Titus bows.

Lexa cocks her head in a small gesture, and Titus returns the chest to Clarke’s arms. Clarke bows respectfully for him, he returns the bow, but not before meeting Lexa’s eyes shortly. 

“Thank you, Titus. You have been of great help,” Lexa bows too, her eyes never leaving his. “Do not go anywhere, I will be back shortly. Clarke, follow me.”

With Titus’ eyes following them, Lexa follows Clarke back to the portal. 

“I need a favor of you,” Lexa says, handing Clarke another tiny bottle. 

“You need me to go through alone.”

“Yes. And take the chest back to the tower. I will be right behind you.”

“Uh, okay.” Clarke eyes the portal with concern. There are no obelisks in the library; the field is distinctly carved into the stone floor. “I can do that,” Clarke says, biting her lip. 

“I know,” Lexa smiles. 

“Okay,” Clarke breathes, composting herself for this very big milestone in her kru career. “See you in a bit.” 

Lexa watches Clarke walk into the field and vanish before her eyes. The truth is, there’s a _slight_ chance that Clarke will end up in Polis City, but if that were to happen, it’s nighttime there and Clarke won’t be seen. Besides, Lexa has faith that Clarke is able to find her way back to Polis Tower on her own.

Then Lexa returns to Titus. 

“You have served three Hedas including myself, and I do not doubt where your loyalty lies,” Lexa begins, holding Titus’ gaze captive – she knows that’s where his true emotions exist. “You have mentored me in the arts of kru history, taught me about our legends, and I am honored to have a skilled mentor such as yourself.”

“Now, Titus, I understand that you did not lie to me about the chest. But what I _do not_ understand is _why_ you kept it from me,” Lexa says, a firm voice shaping a reprimand. 

“I thought it best to keep the secret of Praimfaya hidden, Heda,” Titus says, fighting hard not to break their eye contact. 

“That is not your decision to make, Titus!”

“Sha, Heda. I apologize.” This time Titus wavers. His shoulders fall along with his eyes towards the ground. “I will not make the same mistake.”

“I believe you,” Lexa says. “Done is done, let us leave it in the past and move forward. Consider it a warning, Titus. I do not want to replace you, but if I cannot trust you, I see no other choice.”

“Sha, Heda.” Titus bows, then meets Lexa’s eyes. 

“Speak true now. You are certain Clarke holds the other half?”

“Yes.”

“And The Reaper exists?”

“I have no proof of its existence except what the books tell me, however, I strongly believe they speak of truths.”

“Can it be summoned?”

“I fear it can, Heda,” Titus says, his eyes wide. The shade of fear tells Lexa all she needs to know. Titus’ reaction is enough for Lexa to believe that the legend of The Reaper is true. 

“Very well, Titus. Thank you. Now, one last thing. You will respect Clarke as you respect me.”

Titus nods solemnly. 

“Titus!”

“Sha, Heda.”

“That is all. We are done.”


	19. XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys.
> 
> I am so excited to finally be able share this chapter with you. I won't lie; I've been slightly impatient waiting for this part of the story to begin.  
> It's one of my personal favorites, and I hope you'll like it too.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XIX

 

 

It all comes down to one thing: Lexa owes Clarke. Not just the favor for a favor kind of owing, but the kind of owing that can never fully be repaid. Their history considered, Clarke would be in her right mind to turn down Lexa’s request. Lexa would’ve even respected it. What did happen was Clarke saying “of course, whatever you need” – despite the circumstances Lexa couldn’t speak of – and Lexa had stood there, dumbfounded by Clarke’s easiness eliciting a humorous chuckle from Clarke in return. Lexa had asked Clarke to be a pawn in a game of chess for the sole purpose of blatantly being used to put Titus in checkmate. Clarke had played her part, expertly so, and for that, Lexa owes Clarke.

With a soft fist hanging hesitantly in the air, Lexa takes a deep breath before knocking on Clarke’s door. The thuds of knuckles against wood ring in Lexa’s ears, and she feels a jolt of… nervousness in her body. Swallowing hard, trying to erase that feeling she hasn’t felt for a long, long time, but knows very well what means, she waits for Clarke to get the door.

Lexa is _not_ prepared.

As the door swings open, Lexa finds herself blinded by Clarke’s wide smile. Clarke steps forward to press an object into Lexa’s hand, and Lexa feels her fingers helplessly curl around it. The way Clarke bites her lower lip to contain excitement has Lexa _melting_ , and that’s all Lexa is able to do. Melt. And just… stand there. 

“I did it,” Clarke grins.

The thing in Lexa’s hand is smooth like glass, and it takes her longer than she’ll ever admit to connect the dots. Clarke didn’t use the nausea catcher, which means...

“I healed myself. Well a little bit. It’s tolerable now,” Clarke says, her words colored by the proud smile on her lips. “Did I ruin you?”

“Uh, what? No…” Lexa mumbles, realizing she’s standing in the doorway, awkwardly standing, not speaking, just… standing… and staring. Lexa clears her throat and smiles. “Congratulations, Clarke. I am impressed. You are now able to do something I cannot.”

“What?”

“I am not a healer, Clarke.”

“You can’t heal yourself?”

“No.”

“Huh.” Clarke’s confusion morphs into a cocky curl of her lips. “You know what that means, Lexa,” Clarke says, raising an eyebrow. 

“I do not,” Lexa says, except she does know; Clarke is not that hard to read.

“It means,” Clarke sing-songs, “that I, the wizard rookie, can do something that you, the greatest wizard of all, can’t do. The greatest wizard of all, Lexa! I used only two attempts.” Clarke waves two fingers in front of Lexa, it’s genuine excitement and not at all mockery.

“As I said, I am impressed,” Lexa says, not able to hold back her smile. “It took Nyko five attempts.”

“Five? You’re lying.”

“I speak true, Clarke. Ask him and he will confirm.”

“No… Really?”

“Yes.”

Clarke stands, one hand on the doorframe, the other in a grip around the door, beaming proudly through a silly grin. And Lexa? Lexa melts again as if the juice from flameberries has been injected into her veins. 

“So,” Clarke says, “what can I do for you?”

“Mh?”

“You knocked on my door.”

“Oh. Yes,” Lexa clears her throat. “Sunraun of gratitude is of great importance to us. I would like to show you… If you will join me.”

“I’d like that,” Clarke smiles.

“There is… a tradition… During the celebrations, you wear your hair braided to signify your heritage. If you want I can braid yours so it represents your father’s clan, or, I can send for someone to–”

“–You want to braid my hair?”

“Or, I can send for someone, a hair–”

“–I want you to do it.”

For a soundless moment, they share a smile across the threshold, one that lingers until at least one pair of cheeks blush. With gentle vigor, Clarke pushes open the door stepping aside to let Lexa in. 

Lexa allows the shyness she feels to find her eyes. She steps inside and walks to the far wall to grab the chair. She places it in the middle of the room. “Take a seat, Clarke.”

As Clarke gets comfortable in the chair, she watches Lexa as she walks to the dresser to pull out a small wooden box from the bottom drawer. It occurs to Clarke that Lexa moves about this room with a comfortable ease, and she scolds herself for not seeing it sooner. 

“This is your home, isn’t it? Heda’s home at the tower?”

Lexa looks at Clarke, surprised. “Yes,” she says as she hands Clarke the box. 

Clarke laughs, then, because she feels ridiculous for being blind to this very obvious piece of evidence. “In my dad’s stories, Heda lived in the tower. I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now,” Clarke says and looks at Lexa who’s studying her with dumbfounded eyes. Then Clarke starts laughing again, and she doesn’t stop until she feels Lexa’s fingers comb through her hair. 

Gentle, careful fingers sliding through her hair. 

Clarke’s eyes flutter shut. 

“My dad sometimes braided my hair,” Clarke murmurs, a barely there content sigh in its wake. 

“I think your world calls it a french braid, and it runs here?” Lexa says, running a finger from Clarke’s top hairline in a curve down one side of her head and across her neck to indicate the journey of the braid. 

“Yes,” Clarke says, but before she can ask about Lexa’s knowledge, Lexa provides her with the answer. 

“It is the braid of your father’s clan. Now, before I begin, I need you to open the box.” Lexa runs her fingers through Clarke’s hair once more before settling her hands at the back of the chair. She sneaks a peak over Clarke’s shoulder as careful hands open the lid to reveal what’s inside. Ribbons. Lots of ribbons in many colors. 

“You father’s clan uses green to signify their heritage from the trees,” Lexa says, and Clarke carefully untangles the very thin green ribbon from the rest and hands it to Lexa. “I will braid it into your hair, if you want.”

“Okay,” Clarke breathes, too enthralled by the nostalgia of a tradition Clarke has never experienced, but feels immensely connected to nonetheless. 

“And,” Lexa says, and Clarke feels the gravitational pull of the words even before Lexa speaks them. “Would you allow me to add the golden ribbon, too?”

“What does it mean?” Clarke asks, running a curious pad of an index finger along the silky soft string. 

“It represents a guest of honor. Heda will wear it along with Heda’s color – red – and our three guests from Ice Nation will wear it along with their white ribbon.”

“And me?”

“If you will allow it.”

“I-I’m a guest of honor?” Clarke asks with an awe-shaken voice as she twists in her seat to look up at Lexa. 

“Yes. You are honoring the memory of your father, the great Jake Griffin, with your visit,” Lexa smiles a playful smile, and Clarke knows then, that while it’s true, it’s not a good enough reason to wear the color of honor. 

“Of course, the real reason is your mark,” Lexa says, and reaches over Clarke’s shoulder to take the golden ribbon from the box. “If I must wear this color, you deserve it, too. It would be an honor to _me_ if you would accept the color, Clarke.” 

Lexa combines the two ribbons and twists them into one twirly string of gold and green. Pinched between two fingers in each end, she holds it up against the light admiring how the gold shimmers. “It is like sunlight through leaves. I wore green before I became Heda,” Lexa says, looking from the string back at Clarke. 

There’s a softness to Clarke’s eyes, the kind of shine that comes before tears that’ll form but never mature enough to fall. 

“Turn around,” Lexa says, because Clarke’s blue eyes are boring into her soul, and it makes it hard to breathe. 

As Lexa’s fingers find Clarke’s hair again, Clarke’s own fingers find each other in a fidgety state in her lap, and when Lexa starts braiding, tugging gently at Clarke’s hair, Clarke buries her own fingers into her shirt, holding on for dear life. Even the most gentle touch feels like a storm inside Clarke’s body. It’s been years since she’s felt this way, but she knows what it means, and she knows it’s a really bad idea to go there, so she takes a deep breath, slow and controlled and almost not there as she wills her body to calm down.

Behind Clarke, Lexa takes a similar deep breath to steady her trembling fingers, and she exhales slowly as she ties the ends of the strings to close the braid. Leaving the tail to hang over Clarke’s shoulder, she takes a step back. “It is finished,” Lexa says, her voice as careful as her fingers.

Beaming at nothing in particular, Clarke rises to go to the bathroom, and Lexa follows with tentative steps. In front of the mirror, Clarke twists to study the braid, the way it snakes along one side to fall on the opposite shoulder. Clarke lingers on the twirled string of gold and green that is woven into the braid. She meets Lexa’s eyes in the mirror, the softness she is starting to believe is only for her. It makes her stomach flutter, and she wills her eyes back to the braid.

“I wish I had a camera,” Clarke says, because she doesn’t have the words to describe exactly the right kind of beautiful it is.

“You wear it with grace,” Lexa offers.

“Thank you, Lexa.” Clarke spins around to face her, “for doing this.”

Time stands still. Or, maybe it skips. Lexa isn’t sure. One second she’s looking at Clarke and contemplating how best to express her own gratitude, and the next Clarke’s arms wrap around her torso in a hug, and Lexa has no recollection of what has happened between those two states. The only thing she knows is that she’s melting again, and it’s really, really hard to remember why that is a bad thing. 

“You are welcome, lukot,” Lexa whispers, wrapping her arms around Clarke, too. 

“What does it mean?” Clarke asks into Lexa’s shoulder, not yet ready to let go.

“Lukot is… a friend.”

“Lukot,” Clarke copies, giving Lexa one last gentle squeeze before she takes a step back from the hug, “I like that.”

Friendship is rare for Lexa. Heda does not have the luxury of having friends, and Lexa does not have the luxury of taking time off her duties. Thus, Lexa’s friends are what you’d call kind acquaintances, and they count people such as Indra, Nyko, and even Titus. They are valued by their loyalty, and Lexa values them a great deal by the help and expertise they provide. They are her friends because she is Heda, and Lexa knows that’s the way it’s going to have to be. She is Heda, and Heda is more important than Lexa. 

Anya is a different kind of friend. More than anything, she is family. While Anya is very important to Lexa, she will always be a guardian more than anything. Their relationship will always be colored by how Lexa owes Anya her life. Anya is her family. 

The word lukot fell from Lexa’s tongue like lava falls from Faya Maun; naturally; inevitably; an unstoppable force. It was not a preexisting thought, it seemed it had it’s own agenda, but it felt like truth in her mind and in her heart, and for a moment Lexa thought that she felt it deep, deep inside that part of her she can only enter through a trance. 

Clarke is her friend. 

Because Clarke sees Heda and treats Heda like Lexa. Because Lexa feels like one person in her presence. Because the connection between them is so strong that Lexa couldn’t escape it even if she tried. 

Lexa is Clarke’s friend too. 

If Clarke wants it. 

Lexa thinks she does. 

 

°*°

 

The plaza seems bigger than Clarke remembers – enormous, even, like a soccer field, at least – and Clarke stands on the marble steps with wide eyes taking in the sight before her. 

Vendor stalls are still side-by-side at the edges of this common ground. In the center of the plaza are several long tables, big, bulky, beautiful wooden tables, and Clarke doesn’t understand how anyone would be able to bring them into the plaza this fast, but she’s impressed nonetheless. These tables are already filled with foods and drinks, already occupied by joyful men and women and children. Clarke sees the many braids and the many colors, and what strikes her more than anything is how these colors are blending together – people aren’t divided by clans here. 

“Do all the clans get along?” Clarke asks. 

“No,” Lexa says. “We work hard to solve their disagreements with diplomacy. We have come a long way the past five years because we take our time to listen to their needs.”

Clarke looks at Lexa by her side. Heda’s braid is an intricate pattern of small braids woven together and collected in a straight line down her spine. Red and golden ribbons draw curvy lines from the top of her head to the middle of her shoulder blades. The colors express importance and power, but Clarke knows it’s just for show; it takes greatness to carry them with honor, and Clarke has no doubt that Lexa would stand just as powerful without them. It’s the way Lexa squares her shoulders with pride when she speaks of her people. It’s the care that sparkles in her eyes. 

“What kind of needs?” Clarke asks, curious about what trouble would need diplomatic assistance from their leader. 

Lexa hums as she considers her answer. “An example? The river clan and the fish clan have always disagreed on which part of the river fishing is to be allowed in. The river clan thrives with a nourishing river, and in their minds it means no fishing, but the fish clan cannot provide our people with enough fish if they cannot fish in the river,” Lexa explains. 

“Sounds like _my_ world,” Clarke says, and Lexa smiles. 

“So you see. Both clans are right and both clans are wrong, and it is my duty to help them see that so they can meet in a compromise.”

“Mh,” Clarke hums. “What kind of compromise?”

“The river clan worries most of all that some species of fish will die out, so we have assigned a neutral party to do regular reports on those species’ well-being. To be able to catch these species without endangering them, the fish clan has agreed to decrease their activities on these particular species.”

Clarke nods, her eyes finding the plaza again. By the first table – nearest the tower – Clarke recognizes the guests of honor. These important guests from Ice Nation don’t seem to be enjoying the celebrations more than out of duty – their faces set with fake smiles and disinterested eyes – and Clarke wonders if there’s more going on than meets the eye. Maybe another clan disagreement is about to surface at this audience Roan has requested. 

“Are you really grateful Roan is here?” Clarke asks. 

“It is complicated,” Lexa says, giving Clarke a sideways glance. “That is all I can tell you.”

“I understand,” Clarke says. This Roan Kom Azgeda reeks of trouble, but Clarke doesn’t know enough about this world to even consider attempting a guess at why he’s here. She’d lie if she said she wasn’t intrigued by it, though.

“Are you ready?” Lexa asks, gesturing forwards with a soft hand. 

“I am,” Clarke nods. 

Lexa walks down the marble stairs, Clarke following right after. The second Lexa steps into the plaza, she aligns herself to walk next to Clarke – not in front of her, not behind her. Clarke knows Lexa has several guards in the crowd to keep an eye on things, keep an eye on _them_ , but Clarke finds that she doesn’t care. What matters is that Lexa invited Clarke to join her, and it’s something that makes Clarke happy. Experience sunraun of gratitude by Lexa’s side is going to be an interesting experience, no doubt.

“Before we sit, let me assure you that I intend to keep this a brief affair,” Lexa murmurs, only for Clarke to hear. 

“They tell bad jokes?” Clarke teases.

“They do not joke at all,” Lexa says, giving Clarke a pointed look, one Clarke would cower under if she didn’t know Lexa at all. 

No, Clarke doesn’t cower, she plays along. “Oh, I see how it is,” Clarke narrows her eyes, “you’re feeding me to the lions so you can slip away unnoticed.”

Lexa cracks a smile, then. A wide, uninhibited smile, so unlike Heda, but a version of Lexa that Clarke wishes she got to see more often. 

“I am feeding _them_ to a lion,” Lexa says, a secretive curl of a lip. “They will never know what hit them. Not even Roan Kom Azgeda.”

“Alright, alright,” Clarke grins, looking away to hide the heat creeping up her cheeks. It feels a lot like flirting and Clarke isn’t sure that’s such a good idea, all things considered, Lexa is Heda and Clarke doesn’t belong to this world. 

Another twenty feet and they reach the table of honor. The three guests from Ice Nation stand up, hands linked in front of them, their eyes on Lexa. It’s clear to Clarke that they don’t hold the same genuine respect for their Heda as everyone else Clarke has met. They don’t greet her with cheerful smiles or loyal eyes. They don’t greet her at all. 

They do greet Clarke. Well, Roan does. He looks at her with calculating eyes and a twitch of his jaw that sends shivers down Clarke’s spine. And when Lexa takes a step forward to initiate a greeting, the kru arm grip, Clarke sees out of the corner of her eye, that Lexa’s jaw is clenched shut. 

Clarke doesn’t feel much like the lion Lexa spoke of, but it looks like Lexa has taken on that role herself. 

“Roan,” she says, “shall we take a seat.” It’s every bit a command delivered with the utmost effort of holding back a growl. 

“Let us,” he smiles, and his smile is a creepy blend of bittersweet and vicious, and Clarke wants nothing more than to smack it right off his face. 

This shall be interesting, Clarke thinks, as she takes a seat next to Lexa. This shall be interesting, indeed.


	20. XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you.
> 
> I am nervous about this chapter. 
> 
> ...I even had someone read it a while back to give me feedback (thank you, you know who you are) beause it's a very important chapter, and I've worked really hard to have it make sense. If you have questions after, let me know? The answers may lie in a future chapter, but if not, i'll happily elaborate on how this odd little world of mine works.
> 
> So yeah... go read. I really hope you like it <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XX

 

 

The three guests from Ice Nation sit side by side. Roan, then Echo, then Atohl. They're Roan’s guards, Clarke learns, similar in status to Anya. Clarke studies them with feigned naivety, playing in on Lexa's need to throw them off their game – Lexa never asked this of Clarke, of course, but something, a sixth sense maybe, tells Clarke this is a smart move, and based on Lexa's relaxed demeanor, Clarke is right. Well, to be fair, Lexa does not _appear_ relaxed, she's all spine of steel and a stoic face, an act, a believable act. Except Clarke received one of those appreciative nods Lexa gives her when Clarke impresses her, and that's how she knows Lexa is, in fact, relaxed. 

So Clarke continues to study them, Roan’s guerrillas, while pretending to find every word that spills from Roan’s mouth the most exciting thing in the universe. 

They're using the oldest trick in the book: good cop, bad cop. Echo is all tall and importantly angry, and most likely only there to accuse anyone who dares speak to Roan with her eyes. Atohl is warm eyes and smiles, and Clarke would be fond of him if it wasn't because she knows he's only there to make her feel at ease – well, while Echo studies _her_ , of course. 

Clarke feels a little like a spy, and it’s a little bit exciting. Lexa never asked anything from her apart from joining the table of honor for the feast, but the second they sat down, Clarke realized this was so much more than a just a meal for Lexa. She's concentrating, contemplating, drinking and eating as a way to gather her thoughts. If Clarke hadn't seen the private Lexa, the one with soft eyes and vulnerable words, Clarke never would've seen Lexa's act. This is Heda at work, and so Clarke figured, if she could help out by distracting them a little with her ignorant presence, it's the least she can do for her… lukot.

“How is your mother?” Heda asks, looking at Roan across from her. Clarke is on Lexa's left and across from Echo. 

“You know her, busy like always,” Roan says, a careless shrug of his shoulder, and Clarke wonders if his cheeks are hurting from all the fake smiling he does. 

“It has been a long time. How is Nia’s campaign coming along?” Lexa says, and it's not subtle at all when Roan scratches his stubbled chin with the tip of his thumb – a tell, one Lexa has known since before she became Heda and Roan was a young inexperienced man following his mother around, and Clarke picked up on it the second time he did it. He seems afraid to say too much while knowing full well that silence is much worse. 

“My mother is… a dedicated woman.” Roan says, tasting his words like one who eats fish still with bones between the meat. 

“Do you not share her tenets?” Lexa says, gracefully latching onto Roan’s carefulness. 

“I do,” he says, breaking his first honest smile since his arrival. ”Perhaps, not as strongly.”

“Perhaps.” Lexa copies his smile, too. 

“Clarke, is it?” Roan leans forward, eyebrow cocked, elbows on table, hands finding each other lazily in front of him. 

“It is.” Clarke copies his smile as well. 

“I have not heard of a Clarke before. You are not from here,” he states. 

“No, sir,” Clarke says, wishing she was in a position to tell him to fuck off with his obnoxious smiling. But she pulls strength from the knowledge that her sickeningly sweet politeness is a charade of monumental dimensions, and Roan seems oblivious to it. 

“I see,” he says, twisting one fist in his palm before looking at Lexa with a spark in his eyes. “Bending the laws, are we, Heda?”

“Not at all, Roan. Clarke has a unique skill of Skai Houd that I bargained with her to teach us. In return, I have promised to show her her heritage.”

“Heritage?” Roan’s eyes flick between Lexa and Clarke. 

“Jake Griffin,” Lexa says, carefully studying Roan’s reaction. He is genuinely intrigued meaning he knows very well who Jake Griffin is. It may or may not be useful knowledge, but Lexa makes sure to store it either way. 

“And what unique skill does the heiress of Jake Griffin have?”

“I am afraid that is confidential matter, Roan.” Lexa says, and Clarke internally smirks at him as she finds his annoyance a blissful thing to witness. 

“And I assure you, Roan, as the law dictates, I do not allow unnecessary travel through the portal,” Lexa says, demanding his respect with a pointed look. 

“I am taking your word for it, Heda,” Roan says, lowering his head an inch, but his eyes stay on hers. 

There is a pause, a voiceless moment where Heda demands respect but Roan doesn't cower. Clarke’s eyes fleet from Lexa to Roan to Echo to Atohl. Even Roan’s two guards are caught up in the tension as they have abandoned their mission of harassing Clarke with their good cop bad cop glares. 

“Azgeda, my apologies, but Heda is needed elsewhere.” Anya walks up to the table standing by it's end, and if looks could kill, Roan would no longer sit by this table. 

As the three guests of honor snaps their head towards Anya, Clarke takes the opportunity to really admire their clan braid. Three thin braids running along one side of the head, all hair including the three braids are gathered in a ponytail at the base of their neck. It's tied with one ribbon of white and one of gold. There's something about the colors that makes Roan’s dominance falter, and Clarke finds herself smiling thinking that he'd look ridiculous back in Polis City where ribbons don't carry honor. 

Next to Clarke, Lexa empties her cup and slowly rises from her seat. “It seems I have matters to attend to,” Lexa says, nodding a greeting to all three guests. “I have enjoyed our talk, Roan. I hope you will enjoy sunraun of gratitude.”

“How can I not?” He says. 

“I need you to join me, Clarke.” Lexa looks at Clarke who then rises, too. 

“Mochof,” Clarke says, bowing her head slightly for the three across the table, and she dwells in the way they gape at her choice of word. 

“Mochof,” Roan repeats. 

Looking at Lexa, Clarke smiles, because Lexa's eyes sparkle, and Clarke thinks that her choice of word impressed Lexa, too. 

They return to the tower, and the second they're inside, Lexa scans her surrounds before turning to Anya. 

“Thank you, Anya.”

“At your service.”

“I almost thought you did not catch my sign.”

Anya scoffs, a raised eyebrow, and Lexa smiles, briefly, then turns serious again as she says, “it is not about the portal.”

Anya's sighs. “That man frustrates me.”

“His _mother_ frustrates me,” Lexa mutters. 

“Yes,” Anya says. 

They stare at each other, and Clarke has absolutely no idea what's going on. She considers the possibility that they forgot she's even there, and that she shouldn't have heard what they just spoke of. But then Lexa looks at her with those soft emeralds and a thoughtful frown, and Clarke loses track of any coherent thought she might have had. 

“Anya, I need you to report back to Indra, let her know I am not available unless it is of utmost importance. She will know how to reach me,” Lexa says, already gesturing for Clarke to follow her. 

“Where are you going?”

Lexa turns to give Anya a look that Clarke can't decipher. It's not pleading, but it's vulnerable, and it softens Anya's usually hardened demeanor. 

Anya nods. “Sha, Heda. I will report back to Indra.”

Without another word, Lexa guides Clarke out a different exit, away from the plaza and down paths that twist around bushes and trees until the bustling of activity from the plaza can no longer be heard. 

Clarke wants to ask her where they're going, but she can't find it in her to break the peace. There are birdsong and magnificent things around them, and Lexa's arm brushes against Clarke's now and then. 

And it's nice. 

Really, really nice. 

In front of them, tiny fireflies begin to appear, and Clarke smiles remembering her dad's stories. The density of the glowing bugs soon increases, and Clarke looks at Lexa with exciting eyes. 

“You're taking me to the butterfly field, aren't you?”

“I cannot confirm or deny it,” Lexa says, a small smile dancing at the corner of her mouth, and to Clarke it's all the confirmation she needs. 

Clarke's heart does somersaults, and what she doesn't know is that Lexa's does, too. 

“You are very intuitive, Clarke. You handled Roan well,” Lexa says. “You did not fall for his games, and for that I am grateful. Without knowing it, you provided me with knowledge of something I could not have obtained on my own.”

“About the portal?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes. We have very strict rules about engaging with your world, and Ice Nation campaigns to have these rules lifted. They see Skai Houd as an opportunity to become greater – more knowledge, more power – and they do not care about your people. If they are in their way, they are disposable. The way Roan responded I now know this is not the subject of the audience he requested.”

“I see.” Clarke frowns. “What would it take to lift those rules?”

“My half of Praimfaya. There are two ways for that to happen. I die and the mark chooses a nightblood willing to meet their demands. Or, they gather the majority of my ambassadors to support their campaign. I will then have to decide to follow the majority, or become a dictator and ignore their wishes. If I ignore the democracy, I will lose my people’s trust, and they will turn against me. I think your world calls this a lose-lose situation,” Lexa says, smiling with her last words, proud to share her Skai Houd knowledge, but Clarke is too caught up in her thoughts to notice, too worried about the possibility of Lexa dying or thrown off the throne.

“Are they close?” Clarke asks.

“No. My intel says they are the only clan to want the rules lifted.”

“But you’re still worried.”

“I am. I cannot afford to be… arrogant. They change their tactics all the time, they challenge my loyalty to my people, and I must be prepared.”

Between glowing bugs and colorful flowers, it hits Clarke like lightning from a clear sky, and she stops in her tracks, wide-eyed, her throat suddenly dry. “The gunshot wound,” Clarke breathes, afraid to speak up.

“I have no proof,” Lexa says, knowing exactly what Clarke is implying. “Do not worry, Clarke. It is not your problem to solve. Come on.” Lexa begins to walk, knowing they’re almost at their destination, and Clarke needs to jog to catch up with her. For a while, Clarke walks deep in thought, and the crinkle between her brows makes Lexa smile. 

“But–” Clarke begins, but a gasp swallows the rest of her thoughts as she looks up to find a clearing in the ocean of trees. Sunlight seems too bright for a moment, but Clarke sees them clearly, the glowing butterflies. 

“Walk slowly,” Lexa murmurs, her lips only inches from Clarke’s ear, a warm hand finding rest on Clarke’s back. 

Clarke's skin heats up under Lexa's hand, and she has to swallow hard to rid her throat of dryness, but even then, she can't speak. She's lost for words. Just… Lost. 

Lexa encourages her with a gentle push, and Clarke takes a step into this tiny meadow-like clearing. Grass covers their feet, sunlight warms their skin, and for every step, more butterflies emerge around them. 

“Lexa,” Clarke breathes, and it's barely a whisper because Clarke is afraid her voice will scare these beautiful creatures away; they remind her of her dad and elicits a warmth in her heart that she’ll never be ready to let go of. 

“I know,” Lexa whispers back. When they opened the wooden chest together, a large chunk of Clarke's life washed over Lexa, and she saw Clarke's memory of her dad telling her of this field as clear as if it was her own. Lexa knows how important this is to Clarke. 

Clarke stops in the middle of the field and lifts her face upwards. The sky is almost golden with a subtle shade of orange, the butterflies are a shimmering green and blue against their canvas. 

“They change color,” Lexa murmurs. “Can I show you?”

Clarke looks at Lexa and nods, and she watches Lexa with curiosity as she takes a stand in front of her. They're face to face when Lexa lifts her hands and says, “give me your hands, Clarke.”

Hands resting in Lexa's, palms up, dwelling in the softness of Lexa's hands, Clarke awaits more instructions. 

“Heal the air,” Lexa says, a playful smile on her lips. 

Sending kru energy into the air, Clarke’s eyes widen as butterflies immediately approach the space between them. Their almost translucent wings flutter excitedly as they hover an inch from Clarke's hands. 

“Watch,” Lexa whispers. 

Clarke feels Lexa’s hands gently vibrate underneath her own, how the tremors vary from a slow buzz to a fast buzz and frequencies in between. When butterfly wings begin to change color in sync with Lexa's changing energy, Clarke’s mouth fall open. 

Eyes glued to an awestruck Clarke, Lexa changes up the pattern. She sends off waves of pulsating energy eliciting a surprised gasp from Clarke. The butterflies begin to dance, swirling around each other as they shimmer in the sun. 

It's hard to focus on just one thing, but in the end, the bright emeralds in front of Clarke win her attention leaving both the tingling sensation in her hands and the butterflies all the way in the back of her mind. 

It's too overwhelming. 

All of it. 

The butterflies, the memories of her dad, Lexa. 

_Lexa._

Something happened between them when they opened the chest. Clarke knows something inexplicable happened, something that tied them together more tightly than when Clarke healed her at the hospital. A part of Clarke was given to Lexa, and a part of Lexa was given to Clarke. 

It's in the way Lexa looks at her. As if she can see through her soul. It's in the way Clarke sees right through Lexa, too. This odd sensation of a sixth sense, this _sensing_ what Lexa needs.

Clarke doesn't even register the butterflies anymore, they've fluttered onwards because Lexa let go of them. Hands cup Clarke's cheeks, and only when Lexa’s thumbs brush against cheekbones does Clarke realize she's crying. Then tears form in Lexa's eyes, too. 

“I…” Clarke chokes, but the rest is drowned out by a wave of emotion suddenly washing over her, leaving her gasping for air. 

“You are okay,” Lexa murmurs. 

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, squeezes out another flood of tears. Invisible strings are pulling at her, pulling her into Lexa. She clenches her fists, only then realizing she's clinging to Lexa’s coat, the fabric thin and soft in her bruising grasp. 

“What's happening?” Clarke asks, shaking, feeling a sensation not unlike an adrenaline rush, heat flooding through her veins, her heartbeat picking up. It’s not a panic attack, it doesn’t feel like one, it’s something else entirely, and the unknown scares her.

“Do not be afraid, Clarke. I am here,” Lexa whispers. 

Clarke feels Lexa's forehead against her own, she feels her trembling, and she thinks, perhaps, Lexa is afraid too. 

“Breathe,” Lexa repeats, and Clarke focuses on drawing in air and pushing it back out, on the hand that clings to her neck, and on the warmth from Lexa's breath against her lips. 

The strings keep pulling.

Slowly, calmness finds Clarke, and when she opens her eyes, she finds Lexa with eyes squeezed shut and gritted teeth, and Clarke can't tell if she's concentrating or in pain. Or both. It rips at Clarke’s heart, this need to fix her. 

“Lexa? Talk to me.”

“I cannot fight it,” she says, a string of air pressed through her teeth, her forehead pushing harder against Clarke’s.

“Let me help you, tell me what to do.” Clarke moves her hands to grasp around Lexa's shoulders, gently squeezing them.

“No, it–” Lexa releases a shuttering breath.

“Lexa,” Clarke begs.

At that, Lexa's body caves. Clarke feels tension seep out of Lexa's shoulders, and emeralds appear not even an inch from her own eyes, vulnerable, defenseless. Clarke feels it, she _knows_ it's going to happen before it does, and she understands now what Lexa was fighting, _why_ Lexa was fighting in the first place. It's been a long time coming for Clarke, too. There's absolutely no way to deny it anymore. It's clear when Lexa's eyes flutter shut again as she gently tugs on Clarke's neck pulling their lips to meet. 

Kissing Lexa feels… important. Like some irrevocable force has been evoked. Her lips are gentle, and Clarke doesn't remember why she ever denied herself this. 

Clarke forgets that this is a bad idea. 

Clarke forgets about glowing butterflies and Heda's world and the existence of time. 

Lexa forgets, too. 

The second Lexa presses her lips against Clarke’s, she feels it, this all-consuming warmth that sets her core ablaze. Lexa’s heart is in a state between euphoria and heartbreak, because she’s fully aware of how dangerous this is, of how easy it is to give in, and how impossible it is to fight it. The pull is there for a reason, it’s not meant to be ignored.

But Lexa is Heda, and Clarke is from Skai Houd, and it’s… This kiss makes Lexa feel complete in a way she never did with Costia, and it’s breaking her apart. Then, as if Clarke knows this, arms wrap around Lexa’s waist, and Lexa forgets her pain, too.

There’s Clarke. 

Just Clarke. 

And Clarke’s lips. 

And Clarke’s heartbeat.

Then Clarke’s lips are stolen from Lexa, and she opens her eyes to find wide blue eyes look at her. Fresh tears escape down Clarke’s cheeks and Lexa wipes them away again.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers, confused and afraid. 

“I apologize,” Lexa says, taking a step back, her eyes falling to the wild grass between their feet. 

“I… Why?”

“I could not fight it,” Lexa says, breaking her own heart. 

Because she wanted it so bad, the kiss.

Because she broke her own rule. 

“I know.”

The strings are pulling at Lexa again, pulling her eyes to meet Clarke's. Lexa knows she needs to explain – Clarke deserves to know – but the way Clarke looks at her, with soft understanding, tells her that even though Clarke’s mind doesn't know the word, her body understands its purpose. 

“I can't fight it either,” Clarke admits, stepping closer. “There's this pull… and it keeps pulling until I give in.”

“Clarke,” Lexa begs. If Lexa can't be strong alone, maybe they can fight it together. 

“It feels like something squeezes around my heart,” Clarke says, reaching up to curl a hand around Lexa's neck. “Until I do this. What's happening?” Clarke whispers, hoarse from the truth she’s afraid to hear, but so badly needs to know. 

Lexa shakes her head, afraid to say it out loud. Perhaps, she can still fight it. Once the word rings in the space between them, there's no going back. But already having tasted Clarke's lips, Lexa feels foolish to even believe it an option. It's just prolonging the inevitable. 

“Please.”

There's a thread of pain in Clarke's request that reminds Lexa of the last time she kept things from her. Their history considered, the truth is the only way, no matter what may come of it. Clarke deserves it, and in all honesty, Lexa needs to get it off her chest. 

“Soulbinding.” 

“Soulbinding?” Clarke repeats, as if the word is foreign to her. 

“Yes. It is… an unbreakable bond. It is rare. It is said to be a bond that allows for the bonded to share energy. I have never met anyone who was soulbound…” Lexa trails off, flashes of blue eyes explodes in her mind, taking her back to her trance where Clarke appeared, where Clarke was the answer. Lexa takes a step back, needing the distance to regain control of her mind, but she doesn’t go farther away than she needs to, Clarke still within reach, hands still on her arms.

“Okay,” Clarke says, frowning, trying to collect her thoughts. She hears what Lexa says, but… “Okay... Like soulmates?”

“No. A soulmate is a sentimental value your world ascribes to a timeless love that never dies.”

Clarke's response is a disbelieving silence. 

“Clarke, I…” Lexa shakes her head, frustrated with how hard it is to gather her thoughts. There's more, but Lexa doesn't know how to voice it. 

“Will it hurt me?”

Lexa doesn’t answer, stuck in an endless loop of trying to figure out how to fix this. 

“Lexa,” Clarke demands.

“Clarke, I do not–” Lexa cuts herself off. Clarke is not guilty of Lexa’s frustration. “Our souls are bound together. Irreversibly. It makes us stronger, but also more weak. If anyone hurts me, they will hurt you, too.” 

“And if _I’m_ hurt…”

“Yes.”

“What if I die?”

Lexa clenches her trembling fists hanging by her sides. Her downcast eyes tells Clarke all she needs to know.

“I need to assign you a guard, Clarke.” 

“Okay.” Clarke moves her lips, but sound doesn’t come out. The gravity of the matter hits Clarke like an avalanche, the beginning of a panic attack settling in her lungs. The next breath of air she inhales is sharp, desperate, and Lexa is immediately there, cupping her cheeks reminding her to breathe.

Butterflies are dancing around their heads, but neither take notice, too engulfed in each other and the need to keep each other safe.

“Come on,” Lexa whispers, her lips pressed against Clarke’s forehead. “I will take you to my home, and then I will go and talk with Indra and Anya. We need to regroup.”

Clarke nods, exhausted in mind and body. “Okay,” she whispers, allowing Lexa to hold her weight.


	21. XXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!
> 
> Let me just start off by saying THANK YOU for all the kind comments on the last chapter (I see now there was no need to be nervous).  
> I was nervous you wouldn't accept the soulbinding - I don't know why, okay? Just ignore me ;)
> 
> So... yeah. Here's chapter 21. It should hopefully bring you a better idea of what this soulbinding is, and uh... it's time for Roan's audience as well.
> 
> Let me know what you think!?
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XXI

 

 

Lexa’s mind is a battlefield.

She did the right thing. 

Making sure that Clarke is safe in her home, before going back to the tower to get Indra and Anya, was a smart move; a decision made with her head. The right thing. 

Still, it feels wrong. 

It feels terrible. Devastatingly so. 

It feels… When souls bond, a span of time follows, where they are nothing but fragile, delicate things around which you must tread lightly. The farther away from each other they find themselves, the more they will ache. In time, they will harden and the ache will subside – just like the burning of the mark of Praimfaya – and this is something Lexa knows. She has read the Old Book of Soulbinding, so she _knows_. 

This magnitude of torment, this all-consuming mayhem, however, Lexa has _never_ known. It's something she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. Worst of all is the knowledge that Clarke hurts like this too, and it breaks Lexa's heart to leave Clarke alone to deal with it while she's gone. 

Knuckles turn white as Lexa clenches her trembling fists. She’s at the main road now, almost at the tower, her eyes scrunched together in an attempt to stay on course. She doesn’t see Anya meet her halfway, doesn’t realize it until Anya’s hands are grabbing her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks.

“Lexa. What’s going on?” Anya says, using her entire weight to stop Lexa from moving forward. Still, Lexa tries pushing against Anya’s hands. “Lexa!” Anya repeats. “What happened? Where is Clarke? Is she okay?”

The fear in Anya’s voice startles Lexa, and she loses control of her own body for a second. A second is enough. She clenches her jaw to fight the pain that ripples up her spine. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, to help it along.

“It hurts,” Lexa pushes through gritted teeth. “I… Anya, I need Nyko.”

“Lexa,” Anya begs, needing answers from her, not commands.

“Now, Anya!” Lexa roars, pain igniting her impatience. She forces her spine straight and her chin up. “I need Nyko, Indra and Lincoln. Find them and meet me upstairs.”

“Sha, Heda,” Anya says, the words holding the assurance Lexa needs that Anya understands the importance of her request. 

Anya slides away with a casual quickness that leaves for no misinterpretation. All there is to it is Anya going from point A to B with no significant cause. Lexa trusts her to deal with this so no one suspects anything – if the guests from Ice Nation were to witness Anya collect the most trusted of Heda's Guard, they'd smell blood. They’d know something was going on, and they’d not settle until they’d figure it out. 

Lexa fights her way back into that corner of her mind where she barely registers the pain. She almost never goes here, but when she does, nine out of ten times, it's to escape the loss of Costia. 

With no recollection of how she got there, Lexa finds herself on the ninth floor of Polis Tower. Indra is the first to enter the room, then Lincoln, then Nyko and Anya. They're all standing, side by side, patiently waiting for their Heda to turn around to face them with this emergency matter.

Lexa squeezes her eyes shut for two seconds, one last time, before turning around. She walks up to Nyko and reaches for his hand which she places against the back of her neck. Nyko gently presses his palm against her skin, and Lexa can easily depict the moment when he discovers the truth. Nyko’s eyes widen, and Lexa sees her own fear mirrored in them. 

“Clarke?” Nyko asks, and Lexa nods. 

“What’s going on?” Anya asks, brows furrowing. 

Taking his time, making sure to be thorough, Nyko eases the worst of Lexa's pain, and it's a relief to Lexa, her muscles finally being able to relax, but what really matters is she knows that Clarke will feel the relief, too. 

“Their souls have bonded,” Nyko says, causing a deafening silence in the room. 

“Their… What?” Anya says, speaking for Indra and Lincoln, too. 

“Thank you,” Lexa murmurs to Nyko before taking a step back. She links her hands behind her back, her core still feeling a piercing soreness, but she can work with this.

“Nyko speaks true,” Lexa says, speaking in a clear voice about what she needs from her guard. “I must tell you something that _cannot_ leave this room. It is something you need to know to understand what is happening, and it is something you must guard with your life as you do mine.”

“Sha, Heda,” they all say, vowing to stay loyal at any cost. 

Looking each and everyone of her four lifelines in the eyes, Lexa finds what she needs: honesty, obedience. She then rolls up her sleeve to show her wrist. “I know you cannot see the mark of Praimfaya. But you all know what it is supposed to look like, and you all know that it is there. I hold one half. Clarke holds the other.”

“Praimfaya is intact?” Indra’s voice is carried with disbelief and fear. 

“Yes. Besides you, only Titus knows. I want to keep it that way. With the prince of Ice Nation on our case, you need to act normal while our guests are here, tread lightly, and do not attract their attention. Am I clear?”

“Sha, Heda,” they speak in unison. 

“We need to regroup. Clarke is more vulnerable than me, and I want nothing more than to assign you, Anya, to guard her,” Heda says, holding up a hand to stop the protest she knows Anya is about to send her way. “But I cannot because Nia will hear of it, and then she will know.”

“Lincoln, I need you, Bellamy and Octavia to focus on Clarke. At least while Roan is still here. We will evaluate after.”

Lexa feels the pain slowly rebuilding at the base of her spine, and knowing she doesn’t have much time before it’s back at full force, she looks at Nyko. “I need you and Anya with me. I need to get back to Clarke.”

“Sha, Heda,” they say. 

Lexa takes a moment to swallow the pain once more. She studies her guard, looks them in the eyes. She sees Indra already analyzing what problems this might bring, and she sees Lincoln and Nyko fully ready to obey whatever Lexa commands. Anya, however, is a different case. Anya’s face is marred with questions, and concern, and a fear not unlike a mother wanting to protect her child from anything that may look like even the smallest of dangers. 

This is not Anya's battle, and right now Lexa needs her to do her job. Just her job. Without another word, Lexa leaves the room with a hurried force, with Nyko and Anya quick to follow. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke's mind is a battlefield. 

There’s something clawing at her insides. It hurts like hell and it makes her anxious. It builds, and it grows, and it _taunts_ her, and Clarke doesn't know for sure, but she suspects it intensifies the farther away Lexa gets. 

Time moves agonizingly slow, and Clarke tries to stay calm, she really does, but it's not at all easy when every cell in her body yearns to rip open the door and run to Lexa – wherever Lexa is, something tells her that her instincts will lead her in the right direction.

Lexa's couch is probably comfortable, but Clarke wouldn't know because she’s too wound up to sit still, too tense to calm down. The living room is not at all big enough for the many miles her feet are ready to pace, and she turns exactly three times before she goes to Lexa's bedroom on a whim. There, she crawls into bed and covers herself in Lexa's blankets, immediately comforted by the warmth and the remnants of Lexa's scent.

Her bones are trembling. 

She curls up into a ball. 

She feels the ghost of Lexa's lips on her own, and gentle arms holding her. It’s not real, but it’s good enough. It's the least uncomfortable she's been since Lexa left, so she stays there, wrapped up in the idea of an uncomplicated reality where Lexa isn't Heda, and Clarke isn't from Skai Houd. 

It feels a little like dreaming. 

Maybe half dreaming. 

It's impossible to sleep, still, Clarke must’ve dozed off, because she startles awake when a hand touches her shoulder, and she knows it's Lexa long before her eyes open, because any trace of pain and worry is gone from her body and mind, and in its place is a sigh of relief. 

Lips press against Clarke's temple, fingers gently massaging the nape of her neck. It's a minuscule moment in time where everything feels right, and Clarke is beginning to understand that this is, in fact, a dream.

Except it isn't. 

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, her voice full of relief which Clarke feels too. “How are you?”

“I… Did you just kiss me?” Clarke asks, her voice as hazy as her mind. 

It renders Lexa a sudden mess of fluster. “I am sorry, I sh–”

“–Lexa,” Clarke interrupts her with a soft voice. She pushes the blanket away and sits up, facing Lexa at eye level. “It's okay. We need to talk about it, I know, but right now, it's okay.”

“Okay,” Lexa whispers, timid and lost, and Clarke relates – _god_ , Clarke relates, and god, those strings keep pulling. 

Leaning forward a bit, feeling Lexa’s breath against her lips, warm and inviting, Clarke asks, “will it always be this hard?”

“What will?”

“Staying away from you.”

“It will become easier,” Lexa says, wanting nothing more than to display the self control being Heda requires, not only because she's Heda and it's required of her, but because Clarke deserves better than to be dragged into this gruesome destiny. A part of Lexa still wants to believe that there's a way to revoke this. 

Clarke nods. 

It's the acceptance of this temporary deal, this being in a state of weakness she knows she can't escape. Not yet. 

Clarke runs a hand up Lexa's arm, snakes it below her braids, around her neck, and pulls her closer. Forehead against forehead, for the time being, this is okay. This, she craves. 

“Does it hurt?” Lexa murmurs. 

“Not right now.”

“I brought Nyko.”

“Thank you.”

“And Anya,” Lexa sighs defeatedly, leaning into Clarke. 

Lexa doesn't have to explain that she's tired and needs this day to be over, while Anya most likely is pacing back and forth outside right now impatiently waiting for them to come out. 

Clarke knows. 

“Anything I can do?” Clarke asks. 

“I… Yes.” Lexa shifts. She straightens up, her eyes fall to her fingers that toy with the edge of a blanket, while Clarke's hand lingers at the junction of Lexa's neck and shoulder. “During Roan’s audience I need you to stay near me… I need…” 

Lexa hesitates. She takes a deep breath. Heda must not be vulnerable, but Clarke makes her just that. It’s not easy for Lexa to ask this of Clarke. It’s not easy because Lexa should be able to handle this alone, and it makes her feel inadequate and not worthy to carry the color on her shoulder. But Lexa doesn’t have to voice it because Clarke knows.

“Whatever you need, Lexa.”

Lexa’s smile is colored with sadness and defeat and gratitude as she rises from her seat and holds out a hand for Clarke to take. “I will repay the favor,” she says as Clarke takes her hand.

“There’s no favor to repay.”

With gentle grace, Lexa pulls Clarke into a standing position. They’re inches apart and neither of them makes an effort to move away. Clarke looks up into emerald eyes that are both relieved and troubled at the same time. 

“Can I… Before we go outside, can I–” 

Lexa’s heartbroken request stays unspoken as Clarke steps forward to wrap her arms around Lexa’s waist. Lexa sighs as she wraps her own arms around Clarke, too. They allow themselves this moment to get lost embracing each other, needing to keep each other safe, needing this break before Heda needs to get back to work.

“How long do we have?” Clarke speaks.

“Not long enough,” Lexa sighs.

“Not long enough,” Clarke agrees, absent-minded as her thoughts wander to the obstacles waiting for her, for them, on the other side of Lexa’s bedroom door. Clarke’s mind can’t fully grasp it, except that it fills Lexa with an earth-shattering fear – Clarke feels it even though Lexa doesn’t speak of it – and it’s enough for Clarke to feel the terror as well.

 

°*°

 

It takes Lexa longer than she meant to get Clarke from the bedroom, but she decides it isn't her fault that Clarke fell asleep and in turn messed up her braid. And it isn't Lexa's fault either that Clarke looks at her with soft eyes, still lazy from sleep. Blonde strands of hair illuminated by the soft glow from the light stones are doing their best to escape the braid, and Lexa can't help herself. She chuckles. And when Clarke’s eyes shine with wonder, Lexa _melts_ , and that's not Lexa's fault either. 

Still, Lexa takes it upon herself to redo Clarke's braid, taking her time running fingers through her hair first. Then she allows her palms to take their time as they travel along Clarke’s shoulders and down her arms. And when Clarke turns to look at her, eyes shining brighter than the stars of the night sky of Polis City, Lexa brings a finger up to lift Clarke’s chin as she leans down to kiss her.

Clarke’s lips are soft, and Lexa’s veins are expanding with the river of fire streaming through. 

“This is a bad idea,” Clarke murmurs, when Lexa breaks the kiss.

“Yes.” Lexa agrees.

“It doesn’t feel like a bad idea.”

“No.”

“But it is.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It will put you in great danger,” Lexa says, her eyes falling to the floor between their feet. 

“You and me both, I assume.”

“Yes.” A trembling breath escapes Lexa’s lips, heavy like lead.

“What are you not telling me?”

“Clarke,” Lexa begs for Clarke to let it go.

“Lexa. Please, don’t keep me in the dark,” Clarke says, cupping Lexa’s cheek, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Not with this.”

“You–” Lexa stops herself, the muscles in her jaw twitching once before she continues. “You are from Skai Houd. You are not protected under kru law.”

“What does that mean?” Clarke frowns, her hand falling to Lexa’s collarbone.

“It means, if anyone... if you are hurt, I cannot avenge you. Not by law.” 

A distant memory floods Lexa’s mind. Costia’s death was never avenged because her murderer was never found. She was shot in Polis City, and she died in Lexa’s arms while the assassin got away. If the guilty is ever found, they will be punished and sentenced to an afterlife of eternal anguish, and that's a piece of knowledge in which Lexa used to find comfort – she still does. But if anyone were to hurt Clarke, Lexa can’t avenge them, not by law, and it _terrifies_ her. Their connection must be kept hidden from Heda’s enemies, because with the knowledge, they could literally kill Heda through Clarke and not be punished. 

“Okay,” Clarke says, gravely. “Then prepare me for this audience so Roan never finds out. I assume this is what you worry about.” 

“I… Yes.”

 

°*°

 

An audience is always held with Heda’s people as witness. Thus, Clarke finds herself amongst a crowd buzzing with anticipation as Roan, Echo and Atohl walks into the plaza with their arrogance intact, but their clan braids and ribbons of honor no longer on display. Clarke stands in the second row, proudly wearing her braid still, as she watches Indra step into the open space to thrust air upwards quelling the flame of gratitude on top of the tower. 

With an authority that seems effortless, Lexa steps forward on the marble stairs and holds up a hand to silence the crowd. 

“Mochof,” Lexa speaks, her voice traveling loud and clear so the entire plaza can hear her. “To everyone who took part in these celebrations, I extend my gratitude. It has been a delight to witness your kindness, and I assure you, your kindness will not be forgotten.”

Lexa is anxious. She hides it well, her stoic demeanor a perfect disguise, and Clarke is certain that no one picks up on it. Well, no one but Clarke. The anxiety bubbles in Clarke's blood, too, and that's why Lincoln is by her side, his hand gently resting at the small of her back. Lincoln's empathy allows him to feel the anxiety, too, but only Clarke's. Lincoln takes a deep breath and focuses once more on easing the unrest under his palm, and Clarke feels the tingling at the base of her spine, feeling the anxiety subside. Lincoln performs this act on repeat while Lexa faces her crowd, and, perhaps more importantly, while _Heda_ faces Roan. 

“Sunrain of gratitude have ended.” Lexa turns a quarter of a circle to face her guest of honor. “It is time to grant Roan kom Azgeda his request for an audience. Speak up, Roan. You have my full attention.”

Roan bows, his eyes holding Heda’s calmness prisoner.

“Heda,” Roan says, the deep rasp of his voice powerful enough to reach the crowd in the back. “It has come to our attention that Jossiah has been apprehended. Ice nation demand him delivered. He must be punished for his crimes. He must pay for the murder of my sister, Costia Kom Azgeda.”


	22. XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's Sunday again :)
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all the nice comments on the last chapter. I'm happy to see that you enjoy the Costia cliffhanger there <3
> 
> A lot of things are happening in this chapter. Let me know if you have any questions. I'm as always struggling with the balance between what I need to make very clear and what I assume the reader will figure out on their own. 
> 
> We've come a long way now, and I appreciate all you patient souls that are still reading chapter for chapter <3  
> (Just so you know, your comments always give me a little extra motivation to keep writing).
> 
> Alright, enough ranting, let's see what happens now, shall we?
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XXII

 

 

_“He must pay for the murder of my sister, Costia Kom Azgeda.”_

 

°*°

 

A gasp travels through the crowd like a tiger, leaping out of nowhere to sink its claws in its unaware prey. 

Even if they never met Jossiah, they heard of him, they know the stories of what he did. 

And even if they never met Costia, they knew of her importance to their Heda, and they heard of her destiny. 

Roan’s request shivers down spines, and it ignites a flame of anger and a need for vengeance in many of those present on the plaza. It downright breaks Lexa’s heart, bringing back memories of a past that has ruined her many times already, and Lincoln has to exceed his own limit of the magnitude of pain he is able to handle while making sure Clarke stays as calm as possible. 

For now, Lexa stands tall, keeping her exterior calm and collected, but it has a time limit, she knows. She needs to buy herself time, and although she doesn’t want to, she only has one card to play. The smugness on Roan’s lips tells her that he knows it, too.

Lexa lifts her hand to silence the crowd, and they obey.

“It is true that we have Jossiah.” Lexa steps forward, facing her people. After all, they are the unreliable factor, one Lexa needs to keep on her side, not for her sake, but for the sake of their own safety. “We are currently investigating his involvement in another crime. He will face his punishment when it has been resolved.”

“His previous crimes alone demand his death, Heda. This new crime should not matter,” Roan roars. He motions with an outstretched arm at the crowd now buzzing with unrest; everywhere Lexa looks, eyes demand action. “Are you denying your people justice?”

Lexa is seething, resisting the urge to bare her teeth. Whether Roan’s accusations are true or not, _this_ is his real motive – well, Nia’s motive, Lexa is sure – publicly questioning Heda’s loyalty to her people. 

“I do not deny you justice. It will come to you, I swear of it,” Lexa speaks, letting her gaze travel along the crowd looking into every set of eyes that will meet her own. “But these new accusations are a very serious matter, and you deserve the truth as well.” 

The crowd settles, not fully, but enough for Lexa to know she still has them on her side. To make sure it stays that way, Lexa gives them one last promise. “One sunraun. Give me one sunraun to extract the truth, and then Jossiah will face his punishment.”

With the onslaught of emotions, multifarious and mighty, creeping up her spine, Lexa knows her time is short. She links her hands behind her back, tightening the hold of a wrist as she looks at Roan. “One sunraun,” she repeats, before leaving him on the marble stairs.

 

°*°

 

“Not yet.” Lincoln snakes an arm around Clarke’s torso, keeping her in place. 

“Lincoln,” Clarke hisses, “let go of me, I can’t–” Clarke’s muscles are trembling, fighting whatever demons Lexa is facing. Clarke needs to see her, needs to be there for her. 

“No, Clarke, it’s too dangerous.” He pushes her into the crowd, making them invisible to any curious eye there may be.

Gritted teeth. Balled up fists, nails digging into skin. Clarke’s half of Praimfaya burns in her palm as she forces her eyes away from the tower. 

Lincoln’s eyes are calm. 

Hating every bit of it, Clarke knows he’s right. And she knows Lexa would agree with him. Lexa would live through the pain if it meant everyone else was safe. As Praimfaya pulsates in her palm, Clarke understands that she too needs to learn to choose the pain for the greater good. 

For now, Clarke complies. 

“Okay,” she says, the word scratching its way to the surface.

 

°*°

 

What Anya finds on the ninth floor was to be expected, still, she couldn’t have prepared herself for the spike ramming through her heart. 

A Lexa with wild eyes and ragged breathing paces the floor in a maddening pace. She pulls at the neckline of shirt, Heda’s coat already tossed carelessly to the floor. 

“What do you need?” Anya asks, fighting the urge to run to her, to pull her into a hug. If she could shield her from the pain, she would, whatever it takes, but she knows Lexa is fighting to balance her personal needs with Heda’s duty, and that’s a battle Anya can’t win for her. 

Lexa turns, then, desperate fingers still pulling at her shirt, eyes dripping with panic as she locks onto Anya’s gaze. She shakes her head frantically, as if needing to rid her mind of whatever has infested it, and when she doesn’t succeed, it settles as thunderous eyes ready to tear the whole place apart. Lexa storms forward towards the door, determined to do _something_ , but Anya cuts her off, hands pushing against her shoulder. 

“Anya!”

“No.”

“Move!” Lexa roars. 

“No! I know what you’re about to do, and I won’t let you. You need to calm down first.”

Lexa huffs angrily, pushing against the human barrier holding her in place. 

“No,” Anya says, her voice softening as she wraps her arms around Lexa who then breaks in her arms, silent screams and floods of salt digging into Anya’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Anya hushes. 

 

°*°

 

A large man, with voluminous dark beard and a guard’s coat, strolls through the crowd high-fiving every kid he meets on the plaza. He looks up, smiling as he sees his superior. He walks up to her, takes a stand, casually linking his hands behind his back as he lets a happy chuckle escape his lips. 

“Indra,” he greets. 

“Yes, Gustus.” 

“Pretend that I am telling you good news,” Gustus says, a low mutter colored by a warm smile. 

“Okay,” Indra says, relaxing her shoulders, smiling towards the crowd moving about on the plaza. Out of the corner of her eye, from atop the marble stairs, she senses Roan’s eyes upon her. 

“Nia is here,” Gustus says, waving at two kids hopping past them one-legged. They giggle, waving back before continuing their hopping journey. 

“She is close?” 

“At the back of the plaza. She has been watching the audience.”

Indra nods, a gesture colored by another light smile as if Gustus made a humorous comment. “Come find me if she approaches the tower.”

“Sha, Indra.”

“Thank you, Gustus.” Indra smiles at him once more, and he laughs, resting his hand on her shoulder for two seconds before continuing onwards on his pretend journey past Indra meeting another kid with another high-five. 

Indra smiles against the sun, pretending that this is a good day. Inside her mind, she worries this day will end in chaos. She walks on, weaves through the crowd until she passes Octavia. Without stopping to look at her she says, “Tell Lincoln to bring Clarke to the tower, from the back. Then come find me at the back of the plaza.”

“Sha, Indra,” Octavia says, her small, slender figure already invisible amidst the moving crowd. 

When Octavia finds Indra again, Indra has already spotted Nia moving about the vendor stalls. The white cloak is a stark contrast to everything else, arrogantly demanding awestricken eyes to fall to the dirt below her feet. 

“Octavia,” Indra motions with a hand for her to follow. They walk in the opposite direction of where Nia is, but not before Indra makes sure her plan is working. 

Nia follows, casually strolling along vendors she has already passed once, not giving Indra and Octavia the satisfaction of a glance. 

But Indra doesn’t need it. They’re merely there to distract her. 

Mission already accomplished. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke’s heart beats painfully against her ribcage as she hurries up the many stairs to the ninth floor. She doesn’t bother knocking, but as she pushes the door open, she realizes she might not be entitled to barge in like this, like she owns the place, but when lost emeralds find her across the room, she finds that she doesn’t care at all.

Exhaling with force only to pull in fresh air even harder, again and again, Clarke stands frozen with a million words at the tip of her tongue, but none of them are willing to cross her lips. 

All there’s left is her blood thudding in her ear, an itchy hoarseness in her throat, and the relief of being close to Lexa who may just look the most fragile Clarke has ever seen her, but she’s _here_ , and Clarke _feels_ the relief in Lexa, too. 

“I’ll wait outside,” Anya says, moving past a nonplussed Clarke who never noticed Anya was there to begin with. 

The door clicks shut behind her. 

It seems easier, this time, to fight against the pull. Or, perhaps it’s the fight in Lexa’s eyes that make Clarke hesitate to run to her. 

“Anything I can do?” Clarke asks.

Lexa shakes her head and says, “it is not your problem to solve.”

“I know,” Clarke says, daring to take a step toward Lexa. “But if there’s anything I can do, I want to help.”

Lexa’s eyes widen with every step Clarke takes, inching closer to her soulbound other half. Clarke envelops Lexa’s jaw in her hands, feeling the tension slowly seep away from her clenched muscles, little by little. 

“This helps?”

“Yes,” Lexa says, her sigh indicating she hates that it does.

“Then let me, at least, do this.”

Lexa nods, defeated, her head finding rest against Clarke’s forehead. 

On the plaza, people move about in an agitated state, the buzzing of voices loud enough to reach the balcony on the ninth floor. Clarke and Lexa hear none of it, both forced to listen to their own inner voice. While Lexa prepares for what she must do, Clarke doesn’t have a clue about what she’s supposed to expect from this point forward. 

“What will happen to Jossiah?” 

“He will pay with his life.”

“Because of Costia?”

“No.”

“Because of what he did a long time ago?”

“Yes.”

“Lexa,” Clarke begs for more than one-syllable answers. 

“Clarke.” Lexa’s voice is soaked with years and years of tragedy, not just her own, but her people’s tragedy, too. She takes a step away from Clarke, turning her back on her. “Jossiah did a lot of terrible things, but he never killed anyone. He has secrets, many of them, but he refuses to speak. I have one sunraun,” Lexa says, lifting her hands helplessly, only to let them drop again. “I may never learn the truth.”

“You won’t know if you don’t try.” Clarke walks up to her and places her palms against Lexa’s shoulder blades, wishing she could remove Lexa’s pain. She doesn’t have to try to know that her energy doesn’t work on emotional pain – only the physical kind. Clarke runs her hands down Lexa’s arms until her fingers entangle with Lexa’s. She steps forward, closes what little distance still lies between them, to press her lips against a rigid spine.

Lexa allows it, dwelling in the way her burdens seem lighter when Clarke is near.

“What are you afraid of?” Clarke asks, holding her breath while Lexa fights against the words she’s afraid to speak. 

“That I cannot control myself.” 

“Will it help if I’m there?”

“I do not want you there.”

“Why not?”

“It is dangerous, Clarke.” 

“What happens if you do lose control? That won’t be dangerous?”

The way Lexa’s fingers tighten around Clarke’s is all Clarke needs to know. The silence is Lexa’s way of surrendering. 

“Let me help,” Clarke murmurs against her shoulder.

It seems a lifetime passes before Lexa finally speaks. “Mochof,” she says, the word falling from her lips, weak and broken. 

 

°*°

 

The stench assaults Clarke’s nostrils the second she enters the dungeon. It reminds her of bodies rotting away in morgues, and she finds herself wondering if her experience as a doctor is the reason she isn’t vomiting on the spot. The overwhelming darkness makes for barely visible contours of those around her: Indra in front of her, Lexa next to her, and Anya behind her. It’s suffocating her mind, twisting her stomach, and Clarke rests a hand against her navel easing the nausea before it gets bad. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Lexa turning her head to look at her.

“You felt that?” Clarke whispers, not wanting to be the one breaking the silence. 

Lexa nods, and Clarke allows pride to wash over her for a moment. 

It turns out a moment is all she gets. They turn a corner and Lexa steels her spine noticeably as she says, “stay with Anya.”

Anya steps in front of Clarke, cutting her off, and Clarke watches with fear burning in her veins as Lexa and Indra continue another fifteen feet, farther into the dark. Lexa appears again as the activated light stone on the wall bathes her in a dull glow. With her back against what Clarke assumes to be Jossiah’s cell, Lexa takes a deep breath before spinning around to face him. She looks straight ahead for a long time, and eventually, Clarke sees fingers curl around the metal bars. That’s all she can see. Lexa’s demeanor gives nothing away. 

“I did not send for you,” Jossiah says, and although Clarke can’t see his face, his voice depicts an arrogance much worse than Roan’s. 

Lexa ignores him. Instead she says, “time is up, Jossiah. I assume you already know Roan is here, but based on your insolent smile I suspect you do not know why.” 

Lexa pauses, and Clarke feels the anxiety build at the base of her spine, it subsides as Lexa pulls air in through her nose. “You do not have any rights as a free man, but you do as a prisoner, and it is my duty as Heda to assure that you become aware of the accusations placed in your name.” 

Another pause, another internal fight. 

“Roan Kom Azgeda requested an audience. He demands that you are to be delivered for the murder of Costia Kom Azgeda. My people demand that you are delivered for your previous sins. Do you understand what that implies?”

Jossiah’s stolid voice breaks the deafening silence. “Game over.” 

It’s not the voice of a man realizing he’s nothing but a pawn in a political game – which Lexa has come to realize he obviously is. If anything he seems indifferent, as if this is just another failure in his life, and why wouldn’t it be. 

“Do you plead guilty?”

“I murdered no one.”

“Is Roan making false accusations?”

“Does it matter? I’m a dead man,” he snaps.

Lexa clenches her jaw, and Clarke watches her carefully, feeling the anger bubble under her skin. Lexa takes too long to recover, and Jossiah is merciless in his comeback. 

“Oh,” he laughs, a dry, ruthless taunt. “You want to know if I killed your lover. Is that it? Mh, yes, I think it is. I’m done talking to you. Go away, _Heda_. Come get me when it’s time for my hanging.” 

Jossiah lets go of the metal bars and retreats back into the darkness of his cell. Clarke feels the air being sucked out of her and knows Lexa is close to her breaking point. Too close. To distract her, Clarke does something she promised not to do: she speaks. 

“Did you kill my dad, Josh?”

“Clarke,” Lexa warns, her eyes a shade of betrayal as they snap her way. 

“You may not owe Heda anything.” Clarke ignores Lexa’s glare, and as a result of fighting against Anya who pushes her backwards, away from Jossiah, Clarke raises her voice to be heard. “But you owe me. You owe my dad. He was your _friend!_ ”

“Clarke Griffin?” Jossiah calls, his voice carefully curious, his hands again gripping the bars, the space between them too narrow for his head to push through. 

Everyone freezes, and only Clarke’s ragged breathing fills the void. “Yes,” she calls back. 

“Come closer, I want to see you.”

Clarke takes a step forward, but Anya keeps her in place. 

“Let her,” Lexa commands. 

Holding her breath, Clarke steps forward, with slow steps and a racing heart. She faces him, looks up into his icy blue eyes as they study her. Any trace of anger is gone, and it’s almost comical the way he’s able to hold Clarke’s gaze with gentleness, something Clarke could’ve sworn he wasn’t capable of. 

“When I saw you at the tower, I didn’t know it was you, but I see it now. You have his eyes,” Jossiah says, “I did not kill your old man. I was his friend too.”

“You talked to him the day before he died.”

“I warned him.”

“Warned him?”

“Yes.” Jossiah looks at Clarke’s hand. “Since you’re here, I assume it has already been activated.”

Clarke frowns, balling her left hand into a fist as if it would keep the secret of her mark safe.

“Praimfaya,” Jossiah says. 

“What do you know of Praimfaya?” Lexa steps closer to the bars, next to Clarke.

“Your predecessor didn’t tell you?” Jossiah cocks his head, meeting Lexa’s eyes. He holds no gentleness for her. 

Something clicks inside Lexa’s mind, like old, rusty cogwheels finally finding each other in that one spot where they fit. Banishing him to Polis City, robbing him of his kru mark was not punishment, but pardon. “You are the next Translator.”

A bitter breath of air escapes Jossiah’s lips as he nods once. “Ironic, is it not? I am destined to serve the one person I will never be loyal to.”

“Does Roan know?”

Jossiah’s dry laughter echoes against the walls. “Anyone who ever knew are dead. I couldn’t save any of them. Is that what you want to hear?” Jossiah’s eyes grow dark, morose. Anger spits out the next words. “My parents, Heda, Jake. I couldn’t save any of them. This gift is a curse. If that’s all, I want you to leave now. Let me have these last hours of peace.” Jossiah retreats once more into his darkness.

Only inches from grubby metal bars, Lexa stands with a sinking feeling. There’s no great outcome from this. She will either lose her people or her next Translator in less than one sunraun. Knowing what if feels like to carry the burden of not being able to save innocent lives, Lexa even feels sorry for him. Despite the inevitable tragedy to come, Lexa pledges to do what’s in her might to derail it. 

“Mochof, Jossiah. I may not be able to save your life. If death calls for you, I will make it painless.”

“I deserve the pain,” he says. 

“Very well.”

Giving Indra orders of bringing Jossiah food and water, Lexa leaves the dungeon, leaves the light stone glowing in the dim tunnel.


	23. XXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, for the nice comments on the latest chapter. I'm happy to see that some of you left me some questions as well.  
> A lot of you are asking into what exactly a Translator is, and I answered that question on tumblr yesterday ([click here if you want to read it](https://anonbemetoo.tumblr.com/post/167876460837/a-little-update-on-msa)). 
> 
> If there's anything you're curious about, let me know :)
> 
> As for this chapter? I know I'm repeating myself, but I've been looking forward to share it with you.  
> I truly hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
> Happy reading <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XXIII

 

 

They step inside, Clarke first, then Lexa pushes the door shut with a flat hand against the polished red wood. She leans against the door for a moment, head hanging between her shoulders, eyes closed, jaw tightened. Every crack that ever showed Lexa’s vulnerability is ripped open, on full display. She doesn’t have to hide it from Clarke, she can’t, and for once it feels good. It’s a relief to just be. Imperfect and irreparable. 

Unspoken syllables hang in the air around them as Clarke watches the tired woman straighten her spine and slowly shake off her coat with Heda’s color on the shoulder and hang it on the rack next to the door. Clarke watches with worry in her heart as Lexa turns to face her, catches morose emeralds for a split second before they drop to the floor. As much as it hurts Clarke to witness, she can’t help but find this raw creature in front of her a beautiful, gorgeous mess under the warm glow from Lexa’s home. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke blurts out. For speaking up in the dungeon, for breaking Lexa’s trust. 

Those two words had been clawing at her throat all the way from the dungeon to Lexa’s home. They had tasted of guilt, they had been bittersweet. They are finally out, but Clarke feels no relief; Lexa still won’t meet her eyes. 

“Lexa, please,” Clarke begs, because the silence is deafening, unbearable, like a high-pitched screeching noise that most of all feels like needles inside her ear. 

Lexa shakes her head, frantic, but slow, her eyes are glued to the wooden boards beneath her feet, her brows weighing her down like lead. Her ribcage expands with one quick, powerful pull; the wet gasp is like a knife to Clarke’s heart. 

What Clarke doesn’t know is that Lexa isn’t mad at her. Lexa wants to tell her, but words are failing her. What Clarke doesn’t realize is that Lexa is heartbroken because she’d let herself belief that Jossiah killed Costia. Not because she believed he really did it, but because it would’ve meant Costia’s death could be avenged. It would’ve meant closure. 

“I can leave,” Clarke says, her voice brittle. “If you want.” 

“Stay,” Lexa rushes to say, looking at Clarke wide-eyed. 

“Okay.”

They’re alone. Anya is outside, the rest are patrolling the area. 

They’re alone, and they’re staring at each other, and for every breath Clarke takes, she becomes more aware of her own body, how tense her muscles are, how much it hurts to function. Breath by breath, the past day settles in her bones, one fragment at a time, one incomprehensible event after another, and it soon becomes acutely obvious that Clarke is panicking. 

Lexa reacts before Clarke even realizes what happens. The first involuntary pull of air is caught between Lexa’s hands cupping her cheeks, the second pull is muffled by Lexa’s shoulder, and the third is muted by Lexa’s tender voice.

“Clarke, you are okay. I am here. You are safe.” Lexa wraps strong arms around Clarke’s trembling body, tugging her closer into safety, feeling every heave of air tear at her heart. 

Lexa aches, wanting nothing more than to shield Clarke from all the bad things this world throws at her. She wants to wrap her up in the finest of sheep’s wool and cradle her like a delicate glass figure too valuable to risk anyone ever touching. She would valiantly throw herself at any threat, however minuscule or big, absorbing all of Skai Houd’s bullets with her own flesh and blood, no matter the magnitude of torment it surely would cause, so long as Clarke was safe. 

Therein lies Lexa’s frustration.

Because Clarke is not a delicate, little thing to be protected. Clarke is a strong, independent woman very much capable of taking care of herself. She’s intuitive, trusts her instincts, having already proved to Lexa on more than one occasion that she’s capable of understanding how this world works. She’s a quick learner, so easily fitting in. 

In Lexa’s world, in Lexa’s arms, in Lexa’s heart. 

As Clarke clings to Lexa’s torso, weak fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, Lexa helps Clarke ride out the storm with a hushed voice and a tender touch. In this very moment, between Lexa’s beating heart and Clarke’s once again calm breath, it becomes an undeniable truth that Lexa loves Clarke.

Admitting it is a relief, but also a burden to bear. Even if Lexa wasn’t Heda, Clarke is still from Skai Houd, the world she belongs to, her home. Even if Clarke did love her back, Lexa dares not hope that Clarke would be willing to give all that up for her, to be with her. 

One cannot belong to two worlds, and Lexa’s heart is already mourning the day it has to say goodbye to Clarke. 

“I can hear you thinking.” Clarke’s voice is just above a whisper, still, it startles Lexa.

“I apologize.”

“Don’t.” Clarke leans back to meet Lexa’s eyes as she says her next words. “Anything I can do?”

Lexa shakes her head, slow, hesitant, it morphs into a frown. “I am at a loss,” she says, her eyes growing distant as she searches for more words. She shakes her head once more, then lifts a hand to brush a thumb along Clarke’s cheekbone. “Can we have this? Just this moment?”

Clarke’s fingers tighten their grip around Lexa’s shirt. Moments pass, and Lexa holds her breath trying to ignore the shame she feels due to her rapidly beating heart. 

“Give in, you mean.” 

“Yes.” Lexa fights a battle between needing to avert her eyes and never wanting to look at anything else but Clarke. 

“Will you regret it?”

“No.”

The indefinite honesty behind Lexa’s abrupt answer makes Clarke smile, subtle and soft. She rests her marked palm against Lexa’s heart, eyes studying the rise and fall of Lexa’s chest beneath it. “When I healed you, I felt your heartbeat inside me,” Clarke murmurs. 

“I felt yours too.” Lexa presses a kiss to Clarke’s forehead, letting her lips linger for a moment. “It guided me.”

Their eyes meet, feeding the silence between them with thoughts too big to voice, both terrified that any complexity that might fall from their tongue will destroy them. 

Lexa’s eyes fleet between Clarke’s, then to her lips. She wants nothing more than to kiss her, but she needs Clarke’s consent. She needs to be completely sure that Clarke wants this, too. Thus, she awaits Clarke’s tentative hands to pull at her shirt, pull her that inch closer until their bodies clash and their lips meet. 

This pull is different from that of a soulbound. This is pent up tension from the many times Lexa denied herself to fall for Clarke. 

Clarke makes it easy. 

It’s that simple. 

It’s the way Clarke’s hands slide behind the small of Lexa’s back, and the way arms tighten their hold. 

It’s the way Clarke arches into her when Lexa’s tongue seeks out Clarke’s. 

It’s the way Clarke breaks the kiss, Lexa chasing after her with hazy eye, and it’s the way Clarke asks, “are you sure?”

It’s the quick, gentle nod and a “yes, are you?”

“Just this moment.” 

“Yes.”

Clarke’s fingers find the hem of Lexa’s shirt to pull it up, but Lexa stops her with gentle hands on her wrists. 

“Wait,” Lexa says, and Clarke freezes, eyes welling up with fear and disappointment. Realizing that Clarke misunderstood her intentions Lexa moves quickly, reaching up to free her hair from her braid, removing the ribbons: the red color of Heda and the gold of honor. 

To do this right Lexa needs to be Lexa; the one that owes nothing to her people; the one that is allowed to be selfish. 

Clarke watches with awe-stricken eyes as Lexa runs fingers through chestnut hair, shaking it gently, letting wild hair frame her jawline and fall around her shoulders. It’s an unruly mess, so far from the woman carrying Heda’s color, and it makes Clarke’s heart flutter to be allowed to experience her like this. 

A soft half smile curls on Lexa’s lips and Clarke needs to remind herself to breathe. Gentle hands grabs Clarke’s shoulders, prompting her to spin around. Then Lexa begins the task of freeing Clarke’s hair, too. 

Maybe it’s because Clarke can’t see her, or maybe it’s because she’s allowing herself to live this moment through. 

Maybe it’s both.

Or something else entirely. 

No matter the reason, Clarke feels herself come undone under Lexa’s touch, careful fingers showing the utmost respect to her father’s clan braid. It fills her with emotions she can’t name leaving her stunned, briefly shuddering as Lexa steps around her and takes her hand to pull her towards her bedroom. 

Innocently awkward, like a teenager facing her first time, Clarke is rooted to the floor next to Lexa’s bed, hands a little clammy as she waits for Lexa to take the lead. As if sensing this, Lexa steps closer, both hands finding Clarke’s, fingers entwining like silk ribbons. 

A silent question lingers in Lexa’s eyes, still afraid that words will destroy her, and Clarke understands. Lexa gives her one last out. This is their turning point. Clarke pictures herself take a step back, turn around and walk away, but it breaks her heart, coats her tongue with a tang of something bitter, flooding her mind with regret much darker than a moonless night. 

To settle it, once and for all, Clarke pulls off her own shirt, like ripping off a band-aid. It elicits the smallest of gasps from Lexa who looks at Clarke, wide-eyed, and it leaves Clarke suddenly more open and raw than she’s ever felt before, it’s too overwhelming to be comfortable, and so she gratefully welcomes Lexa’s hand as it snakes around her neck to pull her into a kiss. 

These lips are familiar and new all at once. Clarke has tasted them before, divulged in their exquisiteness, but the adventurous nature they approach Clarke with now is exhilarating. They trail along her jawline as if this unexplored land holds promises of hidden treasures. They brush down her neck like lovers strolling hand in hand along the ocean’s edge, taking their time to leave soft footprints in their wake. They stop by Clarke’s collarbone, gently sucking their name into naked skin, and Clarke has to hold on for dear life as to not implode. 

Lexa is gentle, taking her time, and Clarke tries to be patient, but her need grows more desperate with each new kiss until she can’t take it anymore. Clarke steps forward, pressing against Lexa, pushing her onto the bed. She pulls Lexa’s shirt off, drops it to the floor, and keeps pushing forward until she has Lexa on her back, straddling her waist. 

It’s when their eyes meet that they both know that no matter how much they both need it to, this won’t just stay a moment. It goes deeper than just a choice, the pull is more irrevocable than gravity itself. 

The image of this Lexa, frail and radiant, has already burned itself into Clarke’s soul. And while she knows Lexa would never ask her to stay, Clarke is no longer sure she’ll be able to leave. Not without breaking her own heart, too.

These thoughts are too big to stay in this moment, so Clarke does the one thing she knows will drown them out. She leans in to capture Lexa’s lips once more, shutting down her mind while doing so. She succumbs to Lexa’s gentleness, letting her undress her with careful hands and reverent eyes. 

With trembling lips, Lexa worships Clarke’s naked skin, breathing warm air against her navel as fingers tighten their grip in her hair. Clarke unraveling beneath her is breaking Lexa’s heart, because she doesn’t know if they’ll ever have another moment like this again. 

They exhaust themselves, drinking each other in, learning to communicate without words. Not wanting this moment to end, afraid of what will come next, they prolong it as best they can until their aching bodies collapse. 

With drowsy arms, Lexa covers their sweat drenched bodies with blankets before pulling Clarke closer. Clarke buries her forehead against Lexa’s collarbone, sliding a thigh to rest between Lexa’s. When Clarke’s arms tighten around Lexa’s waist, Lexa presses a kiss against golden hair.

Safe and warm, Clarke pretends that the tears in her eyes don’t sting. Her heart is full of too many constricting feelings, but her mind only allows for the light to shine through. 

“Sleep,” Lexa murmurs, and Clarke is too tired to fight it. 

When Clarke’s breath has evened out, and Lexa is sure she’s sleeping, Lexa lifts a hand sending kru energy towards all light stones but one. There, in the dim light, Lexa stares into the ceiling allowing the tears to finally fall. 

She has never known beauty of this magnitude before. It’s too big, too incomprehensible, something she only ever attributed to the stars of Polis City. Lexa’s heart is caving under the knowledge that this is something that’s not hers to keep. She seeks comfort knowing she at least has this moment, that no one will ever be able to take this from her. 

She seeks comfort in the warmth radiating from Clarke’s body, and the knowledge that they’re in this together, even if it means being apart. 

Clarke sighs in her sleep, and it may be the calm before the storm, but it’s a calm nonetheless, so Lexa allows herself one final selfish thing as she drifts off to sleep, too. 

 

°*°

 

The nightmare finds her again. The one where she’s running through the maze only knowing that time is short and that she _must_ find the exit. She reaches the gap in the floor, and soon she finds herself pushing against the wall that inches closer threatening to push her into the blackness of the gap.

It’s a useless fight, a waste of energy. Something in the back of her mind tells her that this time she won’t wake up before it happens. 

A deep rumble from the depths creeps up her spine like ice cold needles. 

The sensation is too lifelike. 

Maybe this isn’t a dream? 

With bloody fingertips and broken nails, she clings to the stone wall as it pushes the last half of an inch, pushing her toes off what’s no longer ground beneath her feet. 

Then she falls. 

Her lungs are screaming, but it’s soundless. She’s falling but she feels weightless. Everything is black, darkness is seeping into her veins. 

Black. Nothingness.

Until there’s… _something_. 

Until she suddenly finds herself standing, her feet rooted to a ground she cannot see. Massive flames are towering over her, bright and dark, licking at the vastness of nothingness around her. 

“Lexa?”

It’s Clarke’s voice. Lexa snaps her head to the side, finding herself staring into terrified blue eyes. 

“Clarke?”

“What is this place?”

Another rumble, a growl.

They both shudder involuntarily, both staring at the flames. 

Two blood-red eyes shoot open, staring them down from the other side of the wall of fire. 

“Praimfaya,” Lexa says. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke wakes up, gasping for air, cold sweat clammy skin. The barely lit room is not her own, it’s not at the tower, and for a second she panics not knowing where she is. But then something, someone shifts next to her, and she looks, finding Lexa shaking under the blankets. 

Lexa. 

Lexa was in her dream. 

“Hey,” Clarke murmurs, gently touching her shoulder. “Lexa, it’s okay.”

Lexa wakes up gasping too. “Praimfaya,” she breathes, the terror in her voice sends another wave of shiver down Clarke’s spine. 

In the dimness of Lexa’s bedroom, their eyes lock, both reading the same truth on each other’s face. 

“It was just a dream. A… a nightmare,” Clarke stutters, trying her utmost to believe her own words. 

Lexa sits up, blankets falling from her torso. It’s not cold in her room, but her skin is burning, so it’s just the same. 

“Lexa,” Clarke begs, terrified of learning of the truth Lexa is so afraid to speak.

Lexa shakes her head. “No, it is more. An omen.” Her voice is low, a dangerous tremble. She shakes her head again. “Did you… Were you…”

“Yes.”

“Praimfaya,” Lexa repeats, looking at Clarke again. 

They sit side by side, Clarke resting her chin on Lexa’s shoulder, a hand rubbing soothingly along her thigh. 

“The Reaper,” Lexa then says. “If we were both there, then it is not just a dream.”

“It’s real.”

Lexa nods solemnly. She swallows the dryness in her throat, squeezes her eyes shut for two seconds trying to get the vision out of her head. 

She looks at Clarke with wide, searching eyes, a hand brushing sweaty locks from Clarke’s forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Clarke says, because she’s not nauseated this time, and for what it’s worth, she feels safe in Lexa’s bed. “I’m okay,” she repeats, because she needs to believe it herself. 

Lexa hears the truth, the fear, the worry. It lives in Lexa’s heart, too. She leans in to press a lingering kiss on Clarke’s forehead. “I need to clean myself up before....” Lexa stops, she doesn’t want to think about Jossiah and what she has to do. Not now. Not yet. “Come with me?”

“Where to?”

“The river. There is a spot I always go to. It is safe.”

Clarke nods, her hand finding Lexa’s. She entwines their fingers, giving Lexa’s hand a squeeze. Her eyes fall to their joined hands, feeling too vulnerable under Lexa’s emerald stare. “Is this… Will you tell me when this moment is over?”

Although Clarke can’t see it, she feels Lexa nodding. 

“I do not want it to end,” Lexa whispers, not meant to say it out loud. 

Clarke kisses her then. “Then don’t end it. Not yet.”

“Clarke, I…” Lexa releases a shuddering breath. “Not yet,” she repeats.


	24. XXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you!  
> First of all, let me repeat myself: thank you for the nice comments on the last chapter. I'm really happy that you're still enjoying this little story of mine :)
> 
> So... Moving on... Here's one of my favorite chapters.   
> I hope you will enjoy it, too <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XXIV

 

 

It seems an endless journey from Lexa’s home to the river. These never-ending paths that have never existed are nothing but obstacles, large rocks, fallen tree trunks. 

They walk in silence. 

The crispness of fresh air is cold against their cheeks. 

They’re safely hidden between large pine trees, their entourage of Heda’s Guard forming a protective ring around them, far out of sight, but still close enough to intervene should the need emerge. 

Lexa moves about this place as if she’d done it all her life, effortless as she steps in all the right places. Walking two steps behind her, Clarke watches her with envious eyes, feeling like a bull in a china shop every time a twig snaps under her feet. It’s a violent sound against the calmness of these forests, and Clarke apologizes every time, blushing under the amused gaze Lexa throws over her shoulder in return.

As they approach the river bank, Clarke slows down, unable to walk and observe at the same time. It’s an attack on her senses. Sun reflects off the surface of the flowing water, it dances in Lexa’s hair, and it tickles Clarke’s cheeks. There are flowers along the water’s edge, purples and pinks and blues, and if Clarke didn’t know any better, she’d think she was staring at a painting. Something exuberantly sweet infiltrates Clarke’s nose, most likely scent from the flowers. A familiar sound echoes from the treetops, and Clarke squints hoping she’ll catch a sight of the notorious bird.

“Clarke?” Lexa watches Clarke, torn between the need to keep going and the delight it is to watch Clarke observe her surroundings. It’s almost as if Lexa connects anew with her own world through Clarke. 

“Nyko says you’ve seen a shadow singer,” Clarke says, eyes glued to the trees. “What does it look like?”

“It is magnificent,” Lexa says, smiling when Clarke meets her eyes. “Maybe luck will grace me with the opportunity to show you one day.”

“Mh,” Clarke hums, narrowing her eyes. “Does that mean you won’t tell me about it?”

“It means that words were not designed to paint its portrait.”

While it doesn’t get Clarke closer to solving the mystery of the shadow singer, she understands what Lexa means. Nodding, meant for no one but herself, Clarke walks up to Lexa and presses a gentle kiss against her jawline, and says, “maybe luck will grace me.”

“Maybe.”

There’s nothing Lexa wants more than to grab Clarke’s hand and run farther into the forest hunting down luck, away from duty and destiny. Lexa has already allowed for this moment to be prolonged more than it should’ve been, but still, she can’t make herself end it. 

This moment is… 

It won’t be long till Lexa has to step onto the marble stairs in front of the tower and address her people, give them their traitor on a platter. It won’t be long till Indra receives a kill order. It leaves a vile taste at the back of Lexa’s throat. If you take a life, you must pay with your own, and Lexa isn’t sure that Jossiah ever killed anyone, but when this day is over, she will have Jossiah’s death on her hands. To her people, it will be a heroic act, but Lexa doesn’t feel much of a hero.

They haven’t moved.

The blue in Clarke’s eyes is tethering Lexa making it impossible to look away. In Clarke’s eyes she’s Lexa. Just Lexa. Broken. A beautiful mess. A woman with a call in life, a burden, yes, but also a gift, an opportunity to do good. Clarke never said those words, but that’s who Lexa sees as she reflects herself in Clarke’s eyes. It’s a version of her that she has come to love, one she’s afraid to lose once Clarke returns home. 

This moment is... just that: a moment. 

It will end, eventually, and until then, Lexa dwells in the light she finds in Clarke’s eyes. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll be able to store some of it for the dark days she knows will come. 

Their hands find each other, silence once again enveloping them, and Lexa guides Clarke to the patch of grass by the river. Lexa takes the towel hanging over her shoulder and lays it on the ground. Piece by piece, she undresses until she shivers against the breeze, naked as she was born. She turns on the spot to check on Clarke, and finds wide eyes raking down her body, a towel the victim of white-knuckled fists. 

“I apologize,” Lexa hurries to say, hands helplessly held up in a defensive stance. “I did not mean to cause you discomfort.” 

“No, it’s…” Clarke swallows, forcing her eyes to meet Lexa’s. She feels the heat creep up her neck. “I’m fine.” It’s barely an hour since they were both naked in Lexa’s bed, and it shouldn’t be any different just because they’re outside illuminated by the sun, but it is. 

Apparently, it is.

Clarke averts her eyes, turning her side to Lexa, letting her towel drop to the ground. She focuses on the patch of grass below her feet and she starts undressing, too. There’s a splash, and Clarke suspects that’s Lexa already in the water, not wanting to cause Clarke more trouble. 

“I am not looking,” Lexa calls. 

“You can if you want,” Clarke calls back, smiling to herself as she pulls down her underwear. 

Clarke looks up and finds Lexa in the middle of the river, her back turned to her, water up to her shoulders, her hair already drenched and darkened from a dip. Clarke lingers, watching her, wondering if she’ll stubbornly hold onto her chivalry, or if she’ll cave under the same weight that had Clarke admiring her naked figure just a moment ago.

It turns out the mighty Heda is only human. It’s a timid Lexa that turns to face Clarke, emeralds apologetically clinging to Clarke’s eyes. Clarke can’t help but smirk – only a little bit subtle, but clear enough for Lexa to see – as she walks towards the river, towards Lexa. Clarke only lets go of Lexa’s hypnotized gaze when she steps into the water, having to cross slippery rocks. The water turns chin deep after only a few feet, and Clarke pushes herself forward, feet kicking against water. The current is gentle, caressing her bare skin, its cold touch calling for goosebumps. 

It’s refreshing, but also calls for mischief.

“I never thought you’d be one to go skinny dipping,” Clarke says, playful.

“Skinny dipping?”

Hiding her grin below the water’s surface, Clarke snakes closer, enjoying the way Lexa’s eyes widen with a quiet panic the closer Clarke gets. Clarke assumes bathing in the river is customary in Heda’s world, but that doesn’t mean Clarke can’t have a little fun.

“Yes. Swimming… naked.” 

“I… Uh–Okay,” Lexa stutters as Clarke slides her arms around Lexa’s neck. 

Clarke can touch the bottom of the river with her toes – a blanket of stones and sand – but Lexa is a much better rock to hang on to, skin against skin, Lexa’s hands immediately finding Clarke’s hips. 

“Okay?” Clarke repeats in a teasing tone.

“I… forgot the question, Clarke,” Lexa admits, her eyes falling to Clarke’s lips. 

“It wasn’t a question.” Clarke bites down on her lip to tame her grin. 

Lexa meets Clarke’s eyes with a careful curiosity, and Clarke decides to show her mercy. 

“Where I come from, skinny dipping is usually an act of… fun,” Clarke says, lifting a suggestive eyebrow as to make a point. 

“Oh,” Lexa says, her hands tightening their hold on Clarke’s waist. 

It hasn’t gone unnoticed by Clarke that the water is crystal clear, and normally, she’d have no quarrel exploiting it to admire the human being she’s currently wrapped around. But there’s an uncharted world unfolding before her, one much more breathtaking than the physical form of a graceful woman. In Lexa’s eyes, Clarke finds an intimacy she never thought she’d ever experience, not to this extend, at least. She finds a tenderness that shouldn’t be able to make her heart flutter like a hummingbird, but it does nonetheless. There’s a story behind those emeralds, one of emotional scars no one should ever have to live with. Clarke sees the walls Lexa built around herself when she lost Costia, and she sees those same walls crumble before her, brick by brick, with each passing moment. The trust Lexa shows Clarke is unfathomable, and Clarke doesn’t understand how she ended here – how tending a gunshot victim leads to bathing in the river with the leader of a, well, a magical world – but truthfully, there’s nowhere she’d rather be right now.

Under Lexa’s gaze, Clarke feels alive, and she can’t help the question that forms in her mind: did she never truly live until this moment?

Clarke disappears into her mind, her eyes unfocused. Lexa lifts a hand to brush golden hair behind Clarke’s ear, and she runs wet fingertips down her temple, down her neck, along her shoulder, until they find rest against her upper arm.

“You are okay,” Lexa says, and Clarke didn’t even know she was frowning until then. 

“Everything has changed,” Clarke says, moving to place her hands on Lexa’s shoulders. “Not in bad way, just… I can’t decide if I don’t recognize myself anymore, or if I never really knew myself.”

Lexa watches Clarke as she lets her eyes flutter shut, taking a deep breath. She feels Clarke’s hands tighten their grip on her shoulders before they fall slack again, and she leans in to place a kiss on Clarke’s nose. “In any moment at any given time, you are who you are supposed to be,” Lexa says.

“And who is that, exactly?” Clarke’s eyes fall open, locking onto Lexa’s.

“You are Clarke Griffin. You are Jake Griffin’s daughter. You are a doctor and a healer. You are Keeper of Praimfaya. You are a strong woman, one that I admire for her courage and for her drive to help those in need.” Lexa’s voice is firm, never faltering as it speaks a truth that shatters Clarke’s heart and mends it simultaneously. 

“You are Clarke Griffin,” Lexa repeats. “You are you.”

Clarke is speechless, frozen, unable to pull her eyes from Lexa’s. She feels Lexa’s chest rise and fall against her own, and the silence between them becomes unbearable. Not able to form words, Clarke leans in to place a soft kiss against Lexa’s lips. 

_Thank you._

_I trust you, I believe you._

_I am Clarke Griffin._

In return, Clarke receives a gentle smile. It’s laced with that tenderness that sends Clarke’s heart into overdrive, and she lets herself slide from Lexa’s arms to immerse herself in water, successfully breaking whatever spell Lexa has her under.

As Clarke breaks the surface, Lexa is moving towards the river bank again. She picks the leaves of a purple flower and returns to Clarke and hands her half of them. Intrigued, Clarke watches as Lexa rubs the leaves against her skin. 

“It is like soap,” Lexa explains, when Clarke stays idle.

“Soap,” Clarke says, inwardly rolling her eyes, because of course it is. 

As Clarke starts rubbing the leaves against her arm, she is met with a whiff of lavender, her mind conjuring up images of the purple bar of soap she uses at the tower. This odd sensation of something familiar in this strange world soothes her, and she welcomes the lightness that suddenly threatens to burst her heart.

They leave the water, no longer affected by their nudity as they dry themselves off with their towel and then get dressed, side by side, sharing smiles when their eyes meet. 

They walk back, their minds having found an almost ethereal calm in each other’s company. They may not speak, neither needing words to express their state of mind, still, Clarke hears it loud and clear when Lexa’s mind starts wandering away from their safe haven and towards the tower and Heda’s duty.

The second they enter Lexa’s home, Clarke takes their towels and drops them to the floor in favor of pulling Lexa into a hug. 

“I admire you too,” Clarke whispers, tightening her arms around Lexa’s neck, feeling Lexa press into her. “You are stronger than you think.”

Lexa nods against her, steals one last kiss before taking a step back. “Clarke,” she begins, but cuts herself off with a frown. 

“It doesn’t have to end,” Clarke says.

The last thing Lexa does before pulling on Heda’s coat is allowing herself to believe that Clarke is right. She steels herself, straightens her spine, squares her shoulders, does her best to empty her mind. 

Clarke can tell by the fire in Lexa’s eyes that she has put on the mask, rebuilt the walls around her. She doesn’t allow Lexa to leave before walking up to her, running a palm along the red color on Lexa’s shoulder. 

“I admire you too,” Clarke says once more before pressing a kiss against still lips, feeling Lexa’s jaw tense underneath her palm.

“I must go,” Lexa says, her voice void of emotions.

“I know.” 

Lexa lingers for a moment before nodding to herself. She then spins on her heel and walks out the door leaving Clarke behind. 

 

°*°

 

Walking next to Anya is a troubling affair, the silence poking at Lexa like pins and needles not sharp enough to draw blood, but enough to irk her. Lexa’s mind is loud, filled with a million thoughts she must push back in order to prepare for the task ahead, and by the way Anya looks at her with worried eyes from time to time, Lexa knows that Anya’s head is hard at work, too. 

“Just say it, Anya.” 

“You should’ve brought her with you.”

The words pull Lexa to a halt, briefly. “No,” Lexa says, definitively, end of discussion. She pushes her body forward once again, not caring if Anya keeps up or not 

“She keeps you calm.” Anya calls, rushing to follow Lexa. “You need it.”

“To do what must be done,” Lexa hisses, spinning to face Anya with piercing eyes, “I need to enter a very dark place in my mind, and I do not want Clarke to witness it.”

“She’ll be be there in the crowd. You know she will. You–”

“–Keep her away.” Lexa orders, an uncompromising demand, already moving forward again.

Anya huffs, bitter amusement jumping from her lips. “You know that won’t stop her.”

Silence. 

Anya runs to catch up with her. “She knows who you are, Lexa. She won’t care any less.”

“I am taking a man’s life, Anya!” Lexa yells, her fists balling at her sides. 

“You are protecting your people!” Anya yells back. “She understands.”

“It’s not about her, Anya!” Lexa explodes, the tension forcing her body to a full stop. She finds herself facing Anya, not sure if she span around, or if Anya stepped in front of her. 

“Then tell me,” Anya begs in a soft voice, wishing she could carry Lexa’s burden for her. “What am I missing?”

In a brittle voice, one that doesn’t seek pity, but needs to be heard nonetheless, Lexa says, “he was chosen by the elements. I cannot justify his death.”

Lexa’s gaze slides away from Anya to nothing in particular, shaking her head. “Jus drein jus daun… I cannot justify it. I fail my duty as Heda either way. What choice do I have?”

Taking a step forward, Anya grabs onto Lexa’s neck, pulling their foreheads together. “You are Heda, chosen by the legend of Praimfaya.” 

It’s all Anya says, and it’s all Lexa needs to hear. The well-known speech has been Lexa’s mantra ever since the day Praimfaya chose her, it’s where she draws her strength from. 

“Will they forgive me?”

“Will you forgive yourself?”

“I need to speak with Indra,” Lexa says. There may be a third solution, one that will sacrifice Jossiah’s freedom, but not his blood. It’s a risky solution, a choice Lexa refuses to make without Indra’s advice. It would either be a diplomatic disaster, or Lexa’s greatest achievement. 

 

°*°

 

Marble stairs. 

Monsters carved in pure-white stone, inexorable as they demand Lexa’s mind to picture Jossiah’s blood seep down their sharp edges to the soundtrack of vengeful voices chanting Heda’s name. 

Lexa feels sick, feels a sudden yearning to be near Clarke, the one thing she knows may be able to heal her distress. She feels terror in her heart, one she’s not familiar with, and for a second she worries if it’s Clarke, but shakes the thought knowing it wouldn’t make sense; after all, Lexa is the one about to kill a man.

Anya is right, Clarke’s presence would make this a lot easier to deal with, but Lexa doesn’t want easy. She wants all the agony that comes with this part of being Heda, she needs it to stay grounded, to stay sane. 

From her hiding spot in the tower’s shadow, Lexa observes her surroundings, prepares for what’s to come. The plaza is alive, free space taken up by curious bodies in record time as the news of Jossiah’s execution has traveled through the land by the speed of a heartless rumor. Anticipation vibrates in the space in front of the tower, restlessness building under the surface. The air is thick with a cruelty that only lives in vengeful hearts. 

It’s almost time, but Lexa has yet to make a decision. Indra’s advice was insightful. She spoke about an ancient law that has yet to be put to use, a law that allows Heda to grant Jossiah immunity based on his rare gift as a Translator. She also made it very clear that such a decision comes with a cost, and she can’t guarantee that the people won’t riot. 

Is it worth risking?

Lexa watches her people with calculating eyes, trying to read their minds, imagining how they’ll react if she were to tell them she won’t keep her promise of bringing them justice today after all. She wonders what Azgeda will make of it. This is undeniably what Nia Kom Azgeda is waiting for: the riot.

“Heda?” 

The familiar voice of a young boy startles Lexa out of her thoughts, still it’s with a careful pace that Lexa turns to face him. 

“Aden. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Heda. I have a question for you, if I may?” His voice is humble, almost apologetic, his hands are linked behind his back. 

“Of course.” Lexa copies his stance, giving him her full attention.

“Did he do it, Heda?” 

Lexa gives him a smile, one of both pride and sadness, because it’s not a thing to be joyful about, but it pleases her to see him seek out the truth with an open mind. His nightblood is of sovereign worth, and Lexa would want nothing more than a strong young mind like Aden’s to carry the honor of Praimfaya once she no longer is. 

“It is a conundrum, Aden. One accuses him of a crime, but he pleads innocence. Who is right?” Lexa says, always one to challenge the bright boy to use his head. 

“Do we have any proof?” He asks. 

“We do not.”

“Any witness?” 

“I was the only one there and I did not see the attacker’s face,” Lexa says, fighting against the urge to look away. 

At that Aden frowns, his eyes narrowing, deep in thought. “Everyone talks about it,” he says, his eyes falling to his feet. “Most people believe he is guilty. He is a monster, they say.”

“What do _you_ believe?”

“I understand he will be punished for his previous crimes, but it is shameful to make him a murderer if he did not kill anyone.”

“You have the mind of a fair leader, Aden. I am proud of you,” Lexa says, holding out her hand to catch his in an arm grip. She squeezes his shoulder once with her free hand, giving him a respectful nod. He smiles proudly back. 

“Mochof,” he says.

“Did I answer your question?”

“Sha, Heda,” he smiles. “I understand the lesson.”

Lexa has always found great joy in these impromptu lessons with Aden. He is a quick learner, an intelligent boy with a curious mind, and Lexa cherishes the opportunity to share her wisdom with the new generation. 

She allows herself to dwell in this moment, let it wrap her up with a much needed calm, but it’s a brief moment soon interrupted by a wave of thunderous voices, their irate shouting alerting Lexa that Jossiah has arrived at the plaza. 

It does not matter the magnitude of uncertainty Lexa has felt up until this moment. Time has come. With determination setting the pace, Lexa steps out of the shadows and onto the marble stairs, not stopping until she stands face to face with Jossiah. He’s in shackles tying his hands together on his back, two of Indra’s guards holding him in place. Under the nourishing sun, he looks a broken man, a shadow of himself with dark rings around his eyes and dirty hair. The stench from the dungeon still clings to him. 

Unwavering, Jossiah holds Lexa’s gaze as she holds up her hand for the crowd to quiet down. 

Silence echoes. 

Jossiah’s eyes slide sideways, something must have caught his eyes, and Lexa looks in their direction to find Aden scurrying down the marble stars to take a stand in the crowd. 

“What do you see?” Lexa asks, but Jossiah only responds by glaring at her, eyes void of emotions. 

Lexa steps forward, her next words only to be heard by Jossiah. “His name is Aden. He is a nightblood. You see it, do you not?”

“I see his potential,” Jossiah says, surprising Lexa with an answer she didn’t expect. 

“His aura?”

“It’s only visible in young ones.”

“I take it that is how you knew about Clarke?”

The twitch of his lips is enough to confirm, and it tells Lexa that Jossiah is a much more gifted Translator than Titus – her old mentor does not see auras of potential.

Lexa turns to face the crowd. Her conversation with Jossiah was brief, but it was enough to start a new round of angry murmurs. She lifts her hand once more, immediately awarded with silence. 

“Mochof.” Lexa’s voice is strong as it flies above the hundreds of heads in front of her and reaches the backend of the crowd. She steels herself for what she knows must be done. Her mind fleets between images of Jossiah bleeding out on the marble stairs, and images of a crowd taking matters into their own hands, going against their Heda to take Jossiah’s life, demanding their Heda’s life as well. 

Needing the assurance, she looks at Indra who gives her a firm nod as to say she’s got Heda’s back no matter the decision. 

“Heda!”

Someone shouts in the crowd. They shout again, and again, the strong, desperate voice of a man moving closer and closer. When Lexa looks in its direction, she sees the crowd parting, a large man stumbling into the opening in front of the plaza. 

He falls to his knees, like a man with nothing left to fight with. 

“I tried to stop her,” he calls, trying his best to speak louder than the mumbling crowd despite his ragged breathing. 

“Roan,” Lexa says, confused about the meaning of this spectacle. 

“My mother,” he spits. “She has gone too far.”

Lexa walks down the marble stairs needing to look Roan in the eyes while he speaks. As she approaches him, she realizes his face has been smeared with nightblood – Roan is not a nightblood, but Lexa doesn’t have the ressources to worry about that right now. Roan looks like a man in pain, one ready to collapse any moment now. 

“Speak, Roan.” Lexa is impatient. Annoyed. Frustrated. Terrified. 

Roan tips his head back, fighting to keep his focus on Lexa. His next words are delivered with a sincerity Lexa doesn’t know how to question. This is Roan Kom Azgeda, yes, but one who has no reason to lie. His words send a spear through Lexa’s heart. 

“My mother has taken Clarke.”


	25. XXV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!
> 
> So... About the cliffhanger. I'm only a little bit sorry about that one ;)
> 
> But cliffhanger aside, this chapter rewinds a bit. The first scene is after Lexa leaves Clarke at her home to go to the tower... but this time from Clarke's POV. 
> 
> And you may also notice that I'm being creative again with the relations of Ice Nation...
> 
> I think that's it for now. So go on, read, learn what happened to Clarke. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> (...let me know what you think? <3)  
> ~anonbeme

# XXV

 

 

The gentle thud of the door sliding shut rings in Clarke's ears. It's hard watching Lexa walk away; it awakens that pull Clarke has quickly come to know as that of a soulbound. Clarke feels Lexa’s distress grow, and it seeps into her own veins like poison. It’s not a penetrating pain anymore, but it’s there, simmering and itching under her skin. It’s dreadful because Clarke knows she can help Lexa, that a simple touch will bring Lexa a much needed calm. 

So this waiting game… it doesn’t please Clarke. She understands Lexa’s reasons, that she needs to focus on preparations, but that doesn’t stop Clarke from feeling useless.

Restlessness settles in her bones, and Clarke spins around, slowly, taking in her surroundings while trying to find purpose in this idle state. There are books on the bookshelf, but Clarke doesn't feel like reading. She's too antsy to just sit, or lie down. She moves towards the cupboards in the corner, thinking maybe a little food would do her good. Just the thought makes her stomach growl. There's a loaf of bread and some of Nyko’s cheese, and Clarke opens all the drawers hoping she'll find something knife-like to help her cut a slice. The one she picks up has a blade of black glass, or so it looks like, and it works without fault. 

Clarke grabs a couple of flameberries from the bowl on the counter and goes outside with the intention of enjoying her food under the trees surrounded by the song of shadow singers and whatever shade of color the sky has decided upon this time.

Sitting on a tree stub outside, Clarke finds Lincoln casually leaning forward, arms resting on thighs. In his hands is a chunk of wood and a small knife, and Clarke takes a seat next to him, amazed by how easy it looks as Lincoln works on his project. She can't help but picture her father in the exact same position, and it makes her smile. 

“Hello Clarke,” Lincoln says, his eyes glued to the tiny blade as he chips off fragments of wood. 

“Lincoln.” Clarke greets him with a gentle nod he more so feels than sees. “What are you making?”

“I don’t know,” he chuckles, holding up the piece of wood for Clarke to better see. “What do you think?” 

“I think,” Clarke says squinting thoughtfully, “that my imagination isn’t good enough to make a guess.”

Lincoln smiles at her, nodding as he looks at the piece himself. “Octavia misses the stars when she stays here for too long,” he says, his smile turning soft. “I thought I'd try carve one for her, but carving was never a talent of mine.”

“If you can find a tiny light stone you can add it in the middle,” Clarke offers, having no clue if it's even possible. 

Lincoln lifts a a curious eyebrow as he considers Clarke's idea. He nods to himself, wondering out loud, “I like that idea. I could make a small metal holder for it instead. I'm better with metal. Maybe a thin spiral form encasing it. A pendant to a necklace.”

“That sounds really nice,” Clarke smiles, sending a thought or two to the stars of Polis City. And Raven. And home. It seems so far away, and it seems a long time ago. Clarke has to remind herself it only takes a journey through the portal to go back; that yes, it’s that simple. But the prospect of saying goodbye to Lexa tells her otherwise.

Clarke takes a bite of her bread with cheese, and chews it slowly as she wills herself to be in the moment – no beloved memories, no wishes for the future, just here and now. 

It's not easy. 

Every time she closes her eyes, Lexa is there. The tender lover, the stoic leader, the selfless soul, the broken heart. The intimacy wraps around Clarke, and she almost feels Lexa's fingers dance on her skin, her lips kissing life into her veins, her comforting words caressing her soul. 

Clarke squeezes her eyes tight for two seconds, then sighs. She goes back to watching Lincoln and his wood carving as she finishes her food. He looks at peace, finding a moment of calm in this project he has yet to name, and Clarke is envious of him.

Helping people, that's what keeps Clarke grounded. When things settle down again, maybe Clarke can help Nyko with his patients and learn more about this healing energy she has. Hopefully that's where she'll find her own calm. 

Clarke wipes crumbs from the corner of her mouth with a thumb, having already decided she can't stay here till Lexa returns. She clears her throat. “Will you take me to the tower?”

“Are you sure?” Lincoln frowns. 

“Yes. I want… I think I need to see it happen.”

Lincoln takes a moment to consider. The hand that holds the carving knife is still, and he looks at Clarke, holding her gaze before saying, “I will take you.”

 

°*°

 

Lincoln guides Clarke through the forest, down paths Clarke thinks she’s beginning to recognize, but really, she can’t be sure. The big tree at the turn looks a lot like the next big tree by the next turn, but she ignores it, fully trusting that Lincoln knows where they are.

Soon Bellamy joins them, stepping out from the trees with a greeting nod, and not long after, Octavia joins them as well. 

They’re quiet, the air is buzzing with a queasy kind of unrest, and it’s not just because Clarke feels Lexa’s worry in her heart. It’s all of them. Lincoln is more focused on watching out for dangers than he usually is – Clarke contemplates if it's a way of occupying his mind with anything other than Jossiah’s execution – and the siblings are sharing silent words now and then, giving each other comforting looks.

There’s a thing that has been nagging Clarke for a while now. She never found the right time to ask Lexa, but the closer they get to the tower, the more insistent the question becomes.

“What did he do?” Clarke asks, and Lincoln and Bellamy share a look she can’t decipher.

“He was an angry boy,” Lincoln says, a morose frown pull at his face. 

“A coward,” Bellamy scoffs, and Lincoln sends him a disapproving glare. 

“His parents were murdered. It’s not an excuse, but it’s what started his downfall,” Lincoln explains, his eyes looking from Bellamy to Clarke and then to the path that lies before him. “Heda – the previous Heda – took him in, but he had somehow decided all of it was Heda’s fault, and the anger ate him up, made him unstable. He… He hurt a lot of people, he vandalised sacred buildings, he attacked those who tried to help him.”

“But he didn’t kill anyone?” Clarke wants to know.

“No. He caused physical harm to many, myself included, but he never took a life.”

“That’s it? That’s why they’re killing him today?” Clarke cocks her head in disbelief.

“He broke our laws, Clarke. He committed treason, and for that, the punishment has always been death.” Lincoln says.

Clarke nods, she understands that this world doesn’t work like her own, and while Jossiah’s death might seem like a harsh conclusion, she knows it’s not her place to challenge it. “I understand, Lincoln,” she says, “I didn’t mean to disrespect your laws.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Clarke. I know.” Lincoln sends Clarke a small smile, but then stops abruptly in his place. He narrows his eyes, they’re fleeting from side to side as if searching for something, his hand pushing Clarke backwards. 

“Linc?” Octavia asks, but he never has a chance to reply before three persons step onto the path in front of them. 

They’re clad in bright grey cloaks, their hoods covering their heads making it hard to see their faces even under the bright sun. The fabric of the cloaks is shimmering in the light, and Clarke understands that these three are from Ice Nation. 

Clarke feels Bellamy’s hand on her shoulder, feels what’s best described as being wrapped up in an invisible blanket from head to toe. He has activated his shield, and it sends a shiver of terror up her spine to even consider why that's necessary. 

“Pleasure to meet you, skai girl.” The words come from the cloak in the middle, a female voice. 

“Ontari,” Lincoln says, taking a step forward, his body functioning as a visual shield between Clarke and Ontari. “Don’t do anything rash, now.”

Ontari’s laughter is condescending, as is the stare she throws Lincoln when she pulls off her hood. The young woman is dark-haired, fiery-eyed, and she’s a head shorter than Lincoln, skinny built, but he knows better than to underestimate her. She’s a nightblood, and powerful as one. 

As long as they abide the law, Clarke is safe, but the determination in Ontari’s eyes tells Lincoln that they might have to break a law or two themselves if they’re to arrive at the tower without a scratch.

“My mother was right. Heda has found herself a new pet.” Ontari tilts her head, biting her lip. She rubs her thumb and index finger together, and what looks like electrical sparks jump from her hand.

Lincoln knows better: it’s ice. If Ontari decides to attack with her icicles, Bellamy’s shield will eventually cave. It’s powerful, but not more powerful than a nightblood’s weapon.

“She’ll come after you,” Lincoln says. “You know she’s unforgiving.” His hands ball into fists, knuckles white as he tries his best to stay calm.

“Oh Lincoln,” Ontari says, a sickly sweet pity. “I am counting on it. You know as well as I do, that her days as Heda are over if she does.” 

Behind Lincoln, protected by Bellamy's shield, Clarke’s body is trembling. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Octavia step up next to Lincoln. 

Ontari laughs. “Guys,” she says, flipping a lazy hand towards Heda's guards, sending her sidekicks into battle. 

Three sets of streaming ice explode from their hands and Bellamy throws his second hand on Lincoln's shoulder, just barely making it before the blow. Octavia is fast. She answers with a fierce double blow, firstly one of fire to quell the ice, and then one of air that hits one of Ontari's sidekicks, knocking him out. Within seconds, she has taken both of Ontari's soldiers out of battle. They're unconscious and will be for a while, because Heda’s guard is trained to disarm, not kill. 

Ontari doesn't waver, keeps up the onslaught as if she'd predicted the turn of events. One hand attacking Bellamy's shield, the other attacking Octavia's weapon, Ontari soon has the upper hand. It's obvious in the way Octavia clenches her jaw, and the way Bellamy starts trembling. 

“Will she kill you?” Clarke asks from her position between Lincoln and Bellamy. When they respond with hesitant silence, Clarke pushes against them. “I surrender,” Clarke calls, loud enough for Ontari to hear. 

“Clarke, no!” Bellamy slides the hand on Clarke's shoulder around her torso, holding her in place. 

“Listen to her. She is smarter than you,” Ontari calls back. 

“Let me go,” Clarke says, gently pushing against Bellamy's chest. “And then go to Lexa.”

Bellamy flinches, his shield on the verge of crumbling. Octavia yells out in pain next to them, and it's enough for the two men – the lover and the brother – to realize that Clarke is right. They're cornered. 

“Ontari,” Bellamy yells, and it's all she needs to know. 

Ontari knocks Octavia out with a stream of air before dropping her hands to her sides. “Come to your senses, Bellamy?”

“It's okay,” Clarke whispers, the defeat in Bellamy's eyes breaking her heart. “Octavia is okay. I'll be okay. Go to Lexa.” Then she steps away and walks towards Ontario, hands held up in surrender.

“I need a head start, sorry boys,” Ontari says before knocking them out as well. 

Clarke flinches when she hears their body hit the ground. She wills herself to stay calm, breathing in and out slowly. She needs to be smart about this, stall time until Lexa will get to her. 

“Put this on,” Ontari says, throwing a piece of fabric to Clarke, a bag to cover her head. 

“Seriously? I don't even know where I am,” Clarke says. 

“Just do it.”

The way Ontari clenches her jaw tells Clarke that now is not the time to be difficult. She'll test her luck as soon as they’ve left her friends behind – in an unconscious state, yes, but also safe. With hands she has a hard time keeping from trembling, she pulls the bag over her head. The fabric smells like mold, and it makes Clarke claustrophobic in the darkness not knowing what awaits her. She expects new orders, but they never come. Instead, she hears footsteps approaching. 

“Well done, Ontari.” It's another female voice, more hoarse, deeper than Ontari’s. Apathetic. It makes Clarke worry she made the wrong choice. 

“Thank you, mother.”

The footsteps continue until Clarke senses someone taking a stand behind her. Hands grab her shoulders – it's neither gentle nor rough, but a violation nonetheless – and Clarke has to fight the urge to spin around and throw a fist at the person. 

“Ontari,” the woman orders.

Seconds later, Clarke feels hands pressing against both sides of her head, and everything goes black…

 

°*°

 

Roan’s words echo in Lexa's mind while she watches him collapse before her, his large body sliding sideways like a sack of potatoes. She watches it happen in slow motion, and it seems that minutes pass before his head slams against the dusty red plaza tiles, but it's not until Lexa hears the thud she finds herself able to react. 

“Nyko!”

The healer comes running, two helpers in tow, and he kneels by Roan’s head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck. “Get him inside,” Nyko says, and his helpers go to carry the unconscious body of Roan up the marble stairs and inside the tower. 

“Nyko?” Lexa calls again in a low voice, questioning what's going on. 

“He is okay, Heda. Deal with Jossiah, and we will have Roan ready for you.”

Lexa stands paralyzed watching Nyko walk away, she turns towards the crowd before her, and the sight sucks out the air of her lungs. A plaza full of people demanding Jossiah's death. None of them knows how dangerous it is – for them, too – that Nia has taken Clarke. 

She can't do this. 

She's wasting time. 

“Indra,” Lexa calls, rushing back up the marble stairs, throwing orders at her second in command without stopping. “Put Jossiah back in the dungeon. Postpone it. Then come find me.” 

“Sha, Heda.”

Lexa continues inside the tower, Anya following right after. They find Nyko’s men working on Roan on the floor inside the doors. 

Roan’s words repeat themselves in Lexa's mind, and it strikes her there's a numbness in her core, like something is missing, and it worries her what that might mean: is Clarke okay? 

“How long?” Lexa asks out in the open, her eyes glued to Roan. 

“Not long,” Nyko repeats. 

That's not good enough, Lexa thinks, but knows better than to rush something that cannot be rushed. 

“Anya, do we know Lincoln's route?”

“I already sent my men to search for them,” Anya says. 

Lexa nods, her eyes still stuck to Roan. She watches Nyko place his hands on each side of Roan’s head, watches his hands glow as they get to work. By every second, Lexa grows more impatient, and she feels a toxic mixture of fear and anger rise up her spine. 

She can't feel Clarke. 

Logic tells her that Clarke is unconscious, because she'd be able to feel it if they were hurting her. 

She can't _feel_ Clarke. 

She startles when Anya's hand touches her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. It's enough to put a lid on the panic for now, and suddenly she hears it, the crowd outside chanting their mantra of justice. 

_“Jus drein jus daun, jus drein jus daun…”_

It's a tsunami threatening to crash down upon the tower, razing it to the ground. Lexa hears Indra’s voice work hard to raise above it, to calm down the masses, but to no avail. Heda is needed on those marble stairs to guide her people through the crisis, but Roan’s eyes are sliding open in this very moment, and all she can think about is making sure Nia is stopped sooner rather than later. 

Lexa is there immediately leaning over Roan, hands pressed against his chest, keeping him on the ground. “What happened?” Lexa says, and when he takes to just stare at her, fear smoldering in his eyes, Lexa roars out her question once more. 

“She sent Ontari,” he croaks, afraid to breathe. 

“It is Ontari's blood?” Lexa grabs his chin, moving his face side to side to better study the nightblood smeared onto his skin. 

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “Apparently, I am a disgrace to the heir of Azgeda because I do not support their methods.” 

“And these methods?” Lexa asks, on the verge of curling her fingers around his neck.

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?” Roan’s patience has always been limited. “Nia ordered to capture your Clarke alive, cost what it may.”

“Where are they taking her?”

Roan scoffs, bitter and vile.

“Where–”

“I do not know!” Roan roars against Lexa’s grip that compulsively tightens around his jaw. Through his clenched teeth he adds a “Heda” to finalize his statement. 

“If you speak lies, Roan, you–“ Lexa stops herself, feeling her control crumble under her wrath. She lets go of Roan’s face, but doesn’t move otherwise, her eyes still holding him to the floor.

“I may not share your ideals, Heda, but I respect our laws,” Roan says, sounding much like he's trying to keep his own temper under control, too.

“Heda,” Indra calls, having just arrived inside.

Lexa rises to her feet, looks at Roan once more before turning around to face Indra. She squares her shoulders, links her arms behind her back silently asking Indra to continue. 

“The crowd is breaking up, but they will need reassurance from you soon,” Indra says. 

“I would expect nothing else. Well done, Indra,” Lexa says, bowing her head an inch out of respect. “If they riot, and I am not back… If it gets out of control… Give them Jossiah.”

“Are you sure?” Indra asks, and when Lexa hesitates with confirmation, Indra continues, “I will keep them calm until you are back. Do not worry.”

Lexa nods. “Make sure Roan stays till all this is dealt with. If he tries to leave, throw him in the dungeon. And… If I do not return... Find Aden. Protect him with your life.”

“Sha, Heda.”

Lexa takes one last glance at everyone surrounding her. She looks to Anya last, hating what she's about to say, but she sees no other choice. 

“Do not follow me, Anya. Nia expects me alone.”

“Do you know where to go?” Anya asks, resisting the urge to disobey Lexa's order. 

“When Clarke wakes up, she will guide me,” Lexa says, stepping forward to meet Anya forehead to forehead, arms grasping. 

“May the elements guide you,” Anya says. 

“I am Heda, chosen by the legend of Praimfaya,” Lexa responds. 

They share a solemn smile, and Lexa gives Anya’s shoulder a squeeze before stepping around her to walk out the tower towards the destination of her soulbound. 

 

°*°

 

When Clarke comes to, she's lying on the ground.

Or, leaned against a rough wall. 

There something about the perception of up and down that doesn't quite work like it should, but one thing is a fact: whatever is pressed against the side of her face is cold and hard. 

It takes effort to blink her eyes open, and before she succeeds, she has already acknowledged the shooting pain in her hip and shoulder. 

She must be lying on the ground. It's the only thing that makes sense, and Clarke groans silently at the knowledge. 

As her eyes find a focus point, her surroundings morph from an indistinguishable slur to a horrific reality. The inside of a cave, maybe. Everything is a rough stone surface, a shimmery bright grey reminding Clarke of Ice Nation's cloaks. 

She wiggles her toes, then her fingers. 

She lifts a leg an inch off the ground, then the other, and then her arms. 

Good – no damage done. She rolls onto her back, relieved she hasn't been tied up. This confined space may be a cell – Clarke may be wrong, but based on the metal bars that make up the door opening, Clarke dares the assumption anyways – but at least she's free to moves her body as it pleases her. 

She sits up, slides backwards to lean against the wall, the rough surface poking into sore muscles. Then she checks herself for superficial damage, on arms, legs, torso, surprised to find there are none. 

Her inside is a different matter. There's anger, fear, heartbreak, a darkness Clarke has never known before, and it strikes her that maybe it's not her own. 

Maybe Lexa has already been informed. 

Clarke presses her palm against her abdomen, healing the nausea that's not too overwhelming, but it gives her an opportunity to communicate with Lexa. 

Maybe. 

If it works. 

If Lexa feels the healing, too, hopefully she reads it as a sign – which it is – that Clarke is okay. 

God, Clarke hopes it works. 

Based on the minuscule pebble that falls from her heart, leaving room for a flicker of relief, she thinks it did. When she feels her hands tingle, like the way they did when Lexa made the butterflies dance, Clarke knows it did. 

She leans her head back against the wall, letting Lexa's reassurance wash over her, imagining the tingles flow through her veins and settle in her heart. Tears are threatening to spill, but Clarke bites down on the fear of whatever is to come, wills it back into the dark hole it creeped out from, trying her best to be the strong woman Lexa sees in her. 

Not knowing how much time it has been, or how much time it will be, Clarke seeks comfort in the moments she has shared with Lexa. She allows imaginative butterflies to flutter around her, and a gentle stream of water caress her naked skin. And somewhere amidst it all, Lexa's body is flush against her own sharing her warmth and a promise of safety. 

And she almost hears her voice. 

Almost.


	26. XXVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> It's Sunday again, which means a new chapter of this verse. 
> 
> If you need a quick summary: Nia has taken Clarke (with the help of Ontari) and Lexa has gone to find Clarke.  
> Let's see how that goes:
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XXVI

 

 

It's supposed to be a lonesome journey, and in a way it is because there's no one there but Lexa sneaking along non-existent paths camouflaged by the forest. 

No one. 

Except the ghosts of her past clawing at her heels refusing to let her go, insisting to weigh her down. 

Costia was killed because of her, and now Clarke has been taken for the very same reason. It's her fault, and the guilt is eating her up, but it's of no use to dwell on it now. She needs to focus fully on finding Clarke. She needs to be smart about it, be one step ahead, because Nia is a cunning woman who won’t hesitate to ruin Lexa when the opportunity arises.

Lexa still can't sense Clarke, and it worries her. If not for the hunch that tells Lexa to travel towards Ice Nation, she'd have no idea where to go. Something tells her that Nia wants to bring Lexa to her home turf where the queen of azgeda stands stronger against the Heda they don't approve of. Something tells her that Nia wants Lexa to be able to find her easily, and Ice Nation seems the only obvious location.

It's a long journey. If she sets a strong pace, it will take a sunraun to reach their border. Lexa wants nothing more than to press herself to run the full distance, get to Clarke sooner, but it could put her in great danger if she did. She needs to be her strongest self, her energy fully recharged, when she does face Nia – she will no doubt have to deal with Ontari, too – so she makes a pitstop at the healer quarters to fill her pockets with tiny bottles of Nyko’s replenishing blends. 

The forest floor is soon covered in a layer of yellow and red leaves that crunches gently under Lexa’s feet. It has been half a sunraun since Lexa started her journey, and the change of the scenery lets her know she’s about halfway. She comes across a tree larger than most in its proximity, the massive trunk a result of the many generations it has witnessed. Lexa knows this tree well. She stops by the foot, looking at the bulky roots digging into the ground, and a sad smile forms on her lips. This is her and Costia’s tree, where they used to meet up to be alone. This is where Lexa felt at home, and where Costia escaped to to get away from home, away from the duties of her bloodline that she wanted nothing to do with. 

Lexa walks up to the tree and presses her hand against the bark. She pats it twice, then leans her forehead against it. “I think this is goodbye, Costia,” she murmurs, then lifts her eyes to look up into the crown of the tree. She nods once, blinks the tears back where they threatened to escape from, and without looking back she moves on. There’s a small chapel not far from here, and Lexa decides it’s a good place to take a break. Hopefully Clarke will have woken up by then, thus ensuring that Lexa has chosen the right direction.

The chapel is a modest stone building with a doorless opening, and sturdy moss-splotched walls still holding up its roof, ready to provide sanctuary to anyone who may need it on their travels. Lexa enters the darkness of its inside with careful steps and alert eyes, hands held up ready to attack, but there’s nothing but silence and a moldy stench. There are light stones by the entrance, but Lexa leaves them unactivated and fumbles her way to the bench she knows is aligned against the wall to the right. There, she lays down, arms crossed over her chest as she stares up into the darkness. The light from the outside is not strong enough to reveal anything but the first few feet of the inside of the chapel, and Lexa finds a peculiar comfort knowing that no one will be able to see her unless they enter. 

The bench is cold and hard, rough against her back, her mind is racing, so the sleep she catches is light and inefficient. Happy to have come prepared, Lexa sits up and gulps down the content of one of Nyko’s bottles. With elbows on her knees and her head in her palms, she feels her chest rise and fall with a slight panic. She tells herself that sleep was worth the try, that it’s a good enough reason, that she didn’t waste precious time, but the knowledge of Clarke being held by Nia somewhere is penetrating her mind with the scenario of finding Clarke severely injured, or maybe even dead. She _knows_ that their bonded souls would let her know if it were to be the case, but flashes of Costia dying in her arms are too easily morphed into images of Clarke too real to be a hallucination.

Lexa shakes her head violently to rid her mind of these horrors. She squeezes her eyes shut as she directs all her focus into breathing slowly. As her heartbeat finds its calm rhythm again, she thinks she senses Clarke. There’s a fear in her heart that’s not her own, and when she feels a tingling sensation in her gut, she knows it's Clarke telling her she's okay. 

This time she allows the tears to fall, and she watches them roll off her cheeks through a relieved smile. She catches them in the palm of her hands that are trembling by the realization that Clarke is alright, and she dwells in the warmth that spreads on her skin. 

Lexa sends off waves of energy with her hands as if encouraging butterflies to dance, and she hopes Clarke gets her signal, that she’s coming for her. The sliver of relief she now feels is definitely Clarke’s, and it makes Lexa much calmer.

It’s time to test her theory. 

Lexa gets up, stretches her back and winces from the cracks along her spine, and she walks out of the chapel and sets the course towards Ice Nation. If Lexa is right, the pang in her heart will slowly subside the closer she gets to the border, thus also Clarke.

It doesn’t take long for Lexa to confirm that she was right, and not willing to waste anymore time, she picks up her pace. She takes the shortest road possible, preparing herself for the inevitable battle. Whoever stands in her way will get one chance to surrender; one chance only.

The crispy leaves under the soles of her boots have become crystallized, their edges frosty white, and soon Lexa will reach the borders of Ice Nation. There’s no point being discreet. Her black coat is impossible to keep hidden against the white ground, and even if it wasn’t, she still needs to find someone to confirm Nia’s location.

Leaves are fully covered under snow now, and Lexa can see her own breath. She flexes her fingers against the cold and balls them into fists as she tries to stay warm. She fights the urge to tuck them into her pockets for heat because it’ll make her too slow if she needs to protect herself from a sudden attack.

Deciduous trees become pine trees and they become fewer as the hills grow bigger, more sturdy. Lexa is almost at the ice caves when she spots a single azgeda scout patrolling the border. He’s wearing a thick, light grey cloak, and a horn hanging from a strap around his neck. Lexa wonders if he’ll sound it when he sees her, and she wonders if it’ll make any difference at all because Nia is expecting her either way. Taking no chance, she lowers her stance and sneaks up on him as best she can, hiding behind large rocks and the occasional tree. 

The scout is oblivious as Lexa creeps up on him from behind – he would never be honored with a black coat, a Heda’s guard – but instead of attacking him, she says, “turn around, keep your hands where I can see them.”

The scout freezes on the spot, lifts his arms slowly and spreads out his hands for Lexa to see before he turns around to face her. “Heda,” he says, eyes wide with fear, “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Where is your queen?” Lexa demands, keeping him on the spot with a thunderous glare. 

“At the dungeons, Heda. She is expecting you there.” 

“Mochof,” Lexa says. “Now, turn around again.”

The scout frowns, but doesn't question the command. The second his back is turned toward Lexa, she disappears, swift and soundless in the direction of the dungeons. 

It's a relief to finally know exactly where to find Clarke, but it's bittersweet because Lexa knows she's stepping into a trap. It's a dangerous game, because Nia may not know that they're soulbound, but it doesn’t matter because she knows that Clarke is her weakness. 

Lexa passes several azgeda scouts on her way to the dungeons, and they all seem indifferent towards her; as if they've been expecting her. It irks her, and every single cell in her body screams at her to turn around – to stay away from this obvious trap – but what choice does she have when Nia has Clarke? 

The entrance to the dungeons is in Lexa's line of sight now. Large torches with angry flames are plunged into the ground in a row, five on each side of the entrance. Lexa always found Ice Nation’s fascination of fire an oddity considering they decided to colonize by the ice caves. But fire does what light stones and heat stones do together, so perhaps it's no more than an efficiency. And even so, Ice Nation’s preferred weapon has always been ice, and Lexa can't help the thought that they added the massive flames as a visual to taunt anyone who thought to fight ice with fire. Lexa knows better. Her eyes roam along dancing flames, calculating the danger ahead, and she seeks comfort knowing that she's more powerful than Nia's preferred weapon – her daughter Ontari. 

There's a guard waiting for her by the entrance. He steps forward, chin held high, a cold smirk on his lips as he motions with a hand. “After you, Heda,” he says, not one to hide that giving Heda a command excites him.

Lexa fights the urge to curl her fingers around his neck and thrash him up against the cave wall teaching him that, yes, fire _can_ demolish ice – it's simply a matter of what fuels the fire, and Lexa’ rage is an unstoppable force.

Instead she flexes her fingers along her thighs as she steps through the entrance. It's not much different than the dungeon holding Jossiah, except for the shimmery cave walls that light up the claustrophobic space. 

The stench is the same. 

The fear in Lexa's heart is new. 

“Turn right,” the guard orders from behind her, and Lexa clenches her jaw to keep herself from speaking, knowing whatever she has to say won't help her in this situation.

As she turns the corner, Nia's white cloak, a flamboyant monstrosity well-fitting her character, draws Lexa's attention. Nia is standing inside a dungeon, the cell door open, and Lexa sees it as for what it is: it's mockingly reminding Lexa that Nia has the upper hand. 

Twenty feet between them, and Nia turns her head and smiles at Lexa, a menacing, arrogant twist of her lips, and Lexa must once again fight the urge to curl her fingers around someone's neck. 

“Ontari,” Nia says. 

It's a command that Lexa doesn't know what means, not yet, but when Lexa feels Clarke's fear rise up her spine, she knows what she's going to find even before she enters the cell. 

“You received my invitation. Good,” Nia says as she turns to face Lexa fully. “I have proposition for you.”

As Lexa enters the cell, her heart is beating painfully in her chest, and her eyes seek out Clarke to make sure she's okay. Ontari is behind Clarke holding her in a tight grip, one arm around Clarke's neck, her free hand hanging loosely by her side compulsively creating tiny sparks of ice – a deadly threat, nonetheless. 

“Are you okay, Clarke?” Lexa asks. 

The way Clarke takes her time before saying, “yes, Lexa, I'm okay,” is shaded by a controlled calmness Lexa has never seen in Clarke before. It's so unlike the fury she used to challenge Lexa with, which is why Lexa knows it's an act. In those blue eyes, there's a shade of panic Lexa wishes she never had to experience. 

“Oh, she speaks!” Nia exclaims in mock surprise. 

It stirs up a storm in Clarke's eyes, and she glares at Nia with a thunderous anger about to explode, so Lexa decides to step in. “This proposition, Nia, speak up.”

“Abdicate the throne and I will let your little skai girl go. If you refuse, let me remind you that your laws do not protect her.”

Lexa shakes her head, refusing to picture an outcome that takes Clarke's soul from her body. “Nia, you know very well that I cannot abdicate,” Lexa says, her voice an impossible calm, a perfect contrast to the raging storm her skin is barely able to contain. 

Nia's lips curl with a morbid joy, a triumphant exclamation point to her next words. “There is one way, Heda.”

Lexa's nostrils flare. They have pushed her into a corner, into this predicament with no positive outcome. To abdicate means to join death, and if Lexa joins death, Clarke will follow right after because they're soulbound. Nia doesn't know of this, because if she did, she'd kill Clarke on the spot, thus killing Lexa, too. 

If Lexa could keep her people safe by sacrificing herself, she would, but no matter what Lexa chooses, A or B, they both die, and none of that will help her people. 

Lexa needs a third option. She has a plan, and it's risky, but if she plays her cards right, it'll buy her time to figure out how to get them both out of this alive. 

“The next Heda will not grant you portal privileges, Nia. You may tell yourself otherwise, but it will never happen. My abdication will not bring you victory, but I have a counter proposition, one that will give us both what we want.” Lexa pauses, letting the silence tickle Nia's curiosity. 

“I will not give you Polis City,” Lexa continues, “because it holds great wisdom that has saved us many times. But what if I can give you a new, still unexplored land for you to conquer?” 

“Do not listen to her, Mother, she–”

“–Ontari!” Nia cuts her off with a glare harsher than her voice, then she looks at Lexa. “Go on,” she says in a condescending tone, “enlighten me.”

“Swear on the pride of Azgeda that you will let Clarke go and never harm her, and I will summon the Reaper.”

“Do not mock me,” Nia says, because she doesn’t believe the legends are real. 

“I speak true, Nia. Do you not find it peculiar that I have ordered three of my finest guards to protect Clarke?”

Nia considers this, looking from Lexa to Clarke. “Prove it,” Nia says. 

Lexa lifts her hands to indicate she won't attack. “We need to connect,” Lexa says, taking a small step towards Ontari and Clarke. 

Ontari responds by taking a step back, pulling Clarke with her harshly, eliciting a harsh gasp from Clarke’s lips. 

Lexa doesn't trust her to not harm Clarke, so she freezes in her spot. “Ontari, listen to me. I need to activate it by touch. I will stay an arm’s length away.”

“Do it,” Nia demands. 

Slowly, Lexa moves towards Clarke. She sees the questions swimming in Clarke's eyes and says, “it is okay, Clarke, trust me,” and holds out a hand palm up for Clarke to take. 

“Okay,” Clarke says, her voice hoarse against Ontari's grip around her neck, and she places her left hand in Lexa's. 

Keeping her eyes locked with Clarke's, Lexa presses her fingertips against her wrist where her own mark is and says, “you will recognize the mark of Praimfaya by Heda's color. Do you trust Heda's color to speak the truth, Nia?”

“Yes,” Nia answers, slightly impatient. 

“Forgive me, Clarke, this will hurt,” Lexa murmurs, clenching her jaw as she presses her fingertips hard against her own wrist to activate the mark. It feels like the blade of a knife penetrating the skin with brutal force, only to continue ripping their way through her veins. 

It's a terrible pain, one that Lexa has felt only once before – it was the day Lexa finalized her claim of the throne doing this exact ritual to validate that she was chosen by Praimfaya. The pain is so violent that not even Lexa knows how to prepare for it, and when she hears Clarke trying to silence a scream through gritted teeth, tears form in her eyes. Lexa doesn't need to look to know her mark is glowing Heda's red color. “I am sorry,” Lexa whispers, because she's hurting Clarke, and she’ll have to do it again. 

“Do you trust Heda's color to speak the truth, Nia?” Lexa says through gritted teeth, her fingertips gently touching the warm skin of Clarke's palm. 

“Yes,” Nia exasperates. “Get on with it.”

“Lexa,” Clarke begs, a tear escaping the corner of her eye. 

“Forgive me, Clarke,” Lexa repeats, a broken whisper, forcing her eyes to stay on the blue eyes widened with fear. She presses her fingertips against Clarke's palm, begging that Heda's red color will show on Clarke too, as it is stated in The Book Of Praimfaya. 

The second stab is just as painfully brutal, and Lexa tries her best to comfort Clarke with remorseful eyes wishing she could carry both their burdens alone. 

“Do you trust Heda's color to speak the truth, Nia?” Lexa says once more, no longer able to keep the pain from her voice that trembles under Clarke's gaze. 

“Yes,” Nia says. “I will consider your proposition.”

Good. It gives Lexa more time to come up with a plan. She has no intention of summoning The Reaper, she’s not even sure it’s possible without the assistance from a Translator, but Nia doesn’t need to know that. For now, Lexa will buy as much time as possible, and hopefully, before that time is up, Ontari will have made a mistake. Just a moment’s lost concentration is enough for Lexa to turn the tables, and she will hunt that moment as if it’s all that matters, because she needs to physically be between them to be able to stop Ontari from hurting Clarke. Based by the grip Ontari has on Clarke, Ontari knows that too.

They tie Lexa’s hands behind her back, and they chain her to the wall. From there, she has a full view of Clarke who sits, knees tucked under her chin, on the floor in the middle of the cell, and of Ontari who sits on a chair behind Clarke. The chains won’t be able to hold Lexa back, but they’ll slow her down long enough for Ontari to hurt Clarke, and therefore, Lexa relents, leaning back against the cold stone wall as she drafts a plan. 

Nia leaves. She places two guards outside the cell, and surely, a number of guards outside the dungeons as well. Lexa knows they won’t be able to stop her, but again, they’ll slow her down were she to somehow disarm Ontari. Lexa will be able to keep Clarke save from a few men, not many. 

Now they wait for Nia’s return. 

There’s no doubt in Lexa’s mind that Nia will accept the proposition, because Nia may be cunning, always plotting her next move to overthrow the throne, but the promise of a new land is too tempting, and Nia is nothing if not predictable when it comes to temptations that bring promises of more power.

Ontari stares at Lexa with stone cold eyes, and she raises an eyebrow that seems almost patronizing as it begs Lexa to explode. 

Just the thought of anyone hurting Clarke has Lexa on edge. Her eyes fall upon her soulbound, hating to see her like this, trembling and weak, clinging to her knees. Clarke’s tired eyes are glued to the ridges in the floor by her feet, her focus turned inwards, and Lexa would’ve already asked Ontari to bring Clarke food and a blanket if it wasn’t because that’s phase two of her plan. When Nia accepts her proposition, Lexa will explain that they both need to recharge if they are to succeed summoning the Reaper. Recharging requires food, warmth, rest… and more time. 

Lexa wants to reassure Clarke that they’re going to be okay, but that’s a promise Lexa isn’t sure she can keep. So instead of speaking, Lexa sends Clarke a silent signal to tell her they’re in this together. The tingling in her hands may be a small gesture, but it’s all Lexa has to give right now. When Clarke meets her gaze, it’s with a sad smile. It’s still beautiful, and Lexa smiles back, doing her best to lift the pain off of Clarke’s heart. 

Now, they wait.


	27. XXVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone!  
> I'm busy and almost didn't make the upload today. But look, it's here after all :) 
> 
> Enjoy the holidays <3  
> ... and the chapter as well, I hope.
> 
> ~anonbeme

# XXVII

 

 

Letting Lexa go is the hardest thing Anya has ever had to do. Not only as Lexa’s main guard, but also because Lexa is her only family. Keeping her safe is instinctual, and as she watches Lexa trudge out of the tower – on a, no doubt, dangerous journey – to bring Clarke back, Anya feels a hand curl around her shoulder.

“She will come back,” Indra says, confident. 

Anya glances sideways, and they share a look they both recognize as _letting her go is not me doing my job._

“I have to go after her,” Anya says. 

“She gave you an order.”

“It will mean nothing if she doesn’t come back.”

Just then, a group of Indra’s guards barge inside the tower supporting Lincoln, Octavia and Bellamy who are barely conscious, too weak to stand on their own. 

“Nyko!” Indra calls, already running to aide her guards. 

The three guards are placed carefully on the floor, and Nyko and his healers get to work without hesitation. 

Anya watches the scene from the sideline, shocked to see the team of Heda’s three warriors weak and shattered, and as her eyes slide towards Roan who is watching as well, anger flickering in his eyes, Anya realizes two things: one, Roan was being honest about respecting Heda’s laws – you do not attack anyone unless it’s self defense – and two, this is no doubt the result of running into Ontari who, by the looks of it, has become much more powerful than the last time Anya ran into her. 

Then Anya makes a decision.

“Roan?” Anya calls across the mess of healers and hurt bodies spread around the room. As his grey eyes snap up to meet hers, she says, “make a guess. Where is your mother?” 

He shakes his head lethargically. “She never shared that part of her plan, but a guess? Home. The ice caves.” He blinks, his eyes falling on the healers at work. He bites into his lower lip sharpening the lines of his frown. “She is most powerful there,” he says. 

Anya considers Roan’s words as she watches Nyko press his hands against Octavia’s neck. “I think you’re right, Roan.”

Roan looks up, shrugs. 

“This is all or nothing. She attacked Heda’s guards,” Anya continues, looking at Indra who silently agrees with her. 

“Clarke surrendered,” Lincoln groans from the floor, squeezing his eyes tight before opening them carefully. 

“Linkon,” Indra says as she kneels beside him, her voice a gentle fondness as the ancient kru dialect forms his name.

“I’m okay, Indra. I’ll be fine.” He takes a deep breath before propping himself up onto elbows. Another deep breath and he sits, head hanging forward as he runs the palms of his hands down his face. 

“Do you know where they took her?” Anya asks. 

Lincoln shakes his head solemnly. “No.”

“What happened?”

“Ontari was too strong.” Lincoln sighs before looking up into Anya’s eyes. “She knocked out Octavia as if it was the easiest–” He stops himself scanning the room until he finds Octavia. He sees Nyko helping her to a sitting position, and he locks eyes with her for a soft moment before returning to face Anya. An impatient glare meets him, and he clears his throat before telling Anya what she needs to know. “Clarke surrendered to keep us alive, told me to get Heda. She was too strong, Anya, it was our only… We had no choice. I…”

Lincoln deflates, his torso curling shamefully inwards as he admits to not doing the job expected of him. Indra places a hand on his sunken shoulder and leans down to meet him eye to eye. Her voice is firm as she says, “sometimes we must take a step back to be able to move forward. You are alive and you are here. It was the wise decision, Linkon. We will get her back.”

His angry frown becomes sad. “Anything I can do?”

“Tell me about Ontari, about her strength,” Anya says, itching to follow after Lexa, but maybe Lincoln knows something that will help her. “Did she show any specific weaknesses?”

“Costia,” Roan says, and Lincoln snaps his head towards the sound. 

“What is he doing here?” Lincoln says, as much of a growl as the mellow man is capable of.

“Calm down, Lincoln, I am on your side in this,” Roan says, fixating Lincoln with a tired, somber look, his face still covered in Ontari’s blood. 

“What about Costia?” Anya prompts, arms crossing over her chest as she takes a stand between the two rivals, staring Roan down with a glare of impatience. 

“Costia was the perfect child, strong and bright, the perfect heir to the crown, but she did not want it. She met Heda, fell in love, and declared she no longer wanted to be azgeda. Even after Costia’s death, Ontari continued to live in her shadow, and she wishes for nothing more than to prove to our Mother that she is worthy of the throne. Ontari’s blood is strong, yes, but she will never be anything else than Mother’s favorite weapon.”

Anya nods, eyes thoughtfully studying Roan who leans back against the wall closing his tired eyes. 

“Use it to trigger her,” he says in a brittle voice, wincing as he readjusts against the wall. “She has a temper. She will attack first, and you will have your reason to retaliate without breaking the laws.”

Anya scans the room. They’re all okay. Nyko’s team is doing what they can, and Heda’s guards are slowly coming to, one by one. She locks eyes with everyone, and lastly, she looks at Indra who does nothing but nod. At that, Anya spins on her heel and rushes out the tower and towards what she hopes is the right destination: the home of Nia. 

 

°*°

 

There are no lights, no windows, no openings in the cave wall – except for the cell door that only leads to another space with no lights – still it’s not dark inside the cell. The shimmery grey rock surface seems to glow by itself, and Clarke wonders if the entire cave is a light stone. She sits on the floor, grabbing onto her legs in what seems a useless attempt of staying warm. Her surroundings are dead silent, the beat of her heart ringing loud in her ear, its steady rhythm a stark contrast to the panic that rumbles under her skin.

In front of her, Lexa is shackled to the wall, and judged by the darkness in her eyes, she’s holding Ontari’s gaze across the room. Still, Clarke’s skin itches as if Ontari was staring her down from behind. Having a threat on her life breathing down her neck – quite literally – makes Clarke anxious. She anchors herself with the knowledge that time stands still as long as she doesn’t think about how long she’s been here – or how long she’ll be here still – and that Ontari will stay in her place as nothing more but a threat so long as Lexa is able to keep the lid on the burning anger Clarke sees in her eyes. 

Clarke feels a shudder travel up her spine and settle in a small clatter of her teeth. She clenches her jaw to make it stop. 

It’s so damn cold in this place. 

Her head is heavy, her muscles are weak. 

Under Lexa’s wakeful eyes, Clarke allows her head to bury into the crook of her elbow, the fabric of her shirt pressing mercilessly into heavy eyelids. The sight of Lexa shackled to the wall is burned into her retinas, the fearless leader with an unflappable calmness radiating from fiery emeralds as if the chains weren’t even there. It rubs off on Clarke, and she finds herself feeling oddly safe, even as a prisoner in this cold cave cell. 

They wait. 

Clarke’s stomach protests silently with a painful twist of her gut. It stopped growling a long time ago, and Clarke wonders if the bread she found in Lexa's kitchen will be the last thing she ate in this life. Lexa may make her feel safe, but the psycho with ice shooting from her fingers who sits barely two feet behind her threatens that safety just by her mere presence. 

Clarke squeezes her eyes tight as she focuses on the images of Lexa in her mind. 

They _wait_. 

Every time Clarke lifts her head, she’s met with the same vision: Lexa staring Ontari down, unwaveringly, and Clarke assumes Ontari is more than capable of returning the glare. It’s hard to stay strong. It’s hard to believe that Lexa has this under control, that it’s not just an act. But there’s hope in Lexa’s eyes, and Clarke clings to it. There’s nothing else to do.

The waiting gets harder, too, and the cold seems to have taken permanent residence in Clarke’s bones. When echoes of Nia’s footsteps finally travel their way, Clarke isn’t sure if that feeling in her chest is relief or terror. Clarke observes Lexa as her eyes quickly fleet to the cell door, then back to Ontari, and Clarke wonders if Lexa is struggling with the dilemma as well.

_Thank God. She’s back. If I have to sit here another second…_

_Shit. She’s back. Holy shit. I’m going to die!_

Nia enters the cell with two guards in tow. She stops just inside to look at Ontari with what seems to be a silent command, and as Ontari pulls Clarke into a standing position, again using her as a human shield, Nia looks at Lexa. 

“I accept your proposition.”

Lexa nods slowly, not taking her eyes off Clarke. “She needs food,” Lexa says. 

Nia laughs, low and apathetic. “You are in no position to bargain anymore, Heda. It will be wise of you to do as they say,” Nia says motioning to the guards behind her. 

Clarke watches the anger rise in Lexa’s eyes, sees how her jaw tenses, feels the agitation in her gut. She wishes she knew what to do to help. The only thing she can do is cling to Lexa’s gaze, so that’s what she does.

Then Ontari starts pulling Clarke out of the cell, forcing her out of Lexa’s sight. A part of Clarke wants to fight back. The woman holding her in a tight grip is small and lean, and Clarke figures she could get in a punch or two, throw her off her game, distract her, and maybe give Lexa a chance to turn the tables. But Clarke needs to remind herself that this is not Polis City. Clarke has seen firsthand what Ontari is capable of, and if she must be honest, she understands why Lexa is afraid, moving about her with the utmost caution. Ontari is a loose canon, and no doubt a lethal one at that.

They bring Clarke outside and down a path that leads them to an open field. Snow is crunching underneath their feet, and Clarke is shaking against the icy cold air that penetrates her thin shirt. The open field is large and white, and the horizon is grey, rocky mountains, snow-tipped and stubborn. The sky is a pale pink, but Clarke is not in a state to appreciate it, let alone notice it. Even out of Lexa’s sight, Ontari still keeps a tight grip on Clarke, a hand forcefully squeezing around her upper arm, and it’s hard to focus on much else but to keep her balance.

There’s a group of Ice Nation guards waiting for them. They form a large circle, the middle of which Ontari drags Clarke into. They wait, but Clarke doesn’t know what for. The guards stand tall, all of them facing the center of the circle and looking like brutal machines waiting for a kill order, and Clarke turns her gaze inwards to focus on the one thing that makes her feel safe: Lexa.

Again, a mixture of relief and terror rushes through Clarke as she realizes that Lexa does in fact stand before her, that time must have passed without Clarke’s knowledge and brought Lexa to this location. This time, Clarke sees the terror mirrored in Lexa’s eyes. 

Ontari let’s go of Clarke, pushing her forward, and Clarke crumbles, kneecaps smashing into the hard ground. It’s barely a second before Lexa kneels in front of her, hands finding Clarke’s shoulder to steady her. 

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, the tone of her voice asking if Clarke is alright. 

Clarke looks up into emerald eyes, the tenderness almost surreal considering twenty men have their hands directed towards her, ready to attack her should Lexa not keep her word. Clarke wants to say yes, she’s okay, but the truth manifests itself when tears escape down her cheeks. 

“I have no choice,” Lexa whispers, broken and hoarse.

Although the words fell from Lexa’s lips, Clarke tastes the tragedy on her own tongue. Because Clarke knows that they’re both fighting for their lives right now, that whatever Lexa is planning to do is their only chance at surviving.

“Trust me,” Lexa says, brushing Clarke’s tears away with the palms of her hands. Clarke nods against the softness of Lexa’s touch. 

“Time is running out, Heda,” Nia calls, and a few guards respond with a morbid chuckle muffled by the distance that leaps from the center of the circle to the peripheral wall of human weapons.

Lexa helps Clarke to her feet with steady hands and no reason to hurry. She catches Ontari’s eyes over Clarke’s shoulder, and she vows silently, that before this is all over, she’ll put an end to Ontari’s disrespectful arrogance – she is not worthy of the honor that pulsates from her heart and gifts her body with an outstanding strength. For now, Lexa needs to be smart. She can act the victim a little while longer if it eventually gives her the opening she needs to regain the upper hand. That moment is not now, not with Ontari and twenty skilled guards ready to attack Clarke the second Lexa snaps. So Lexa straightens her spine, puts on Heda’s mask of stoicism before turning to face Nia who stands on the other side of the circle like the coward she is.

“You clearly have a plan, Nia. What is it?”

“Summon the Reaper, give me the land you promised me,” Nia says, and there’s an edge to her voice, a slight taunt.

“You do not believe in the Legends,” Lexa says, half-stating, half-questioning, finally understanding why Nia is hiding behind her guard. Nia expects Lexa to not give in this easily, and Lexa almost laughs because she feels stupid to even consider the Reaper a believable smokescreen.

“I believe that you do. So I am giving you this final chance of convincing me. Summon the Reaper, save your skai girl.”

It has come to this. There are twenty skilled men and a vicious nightblood all aiming their weapons at Clarke, and Lexa has only two choices: one, summon the Reaper, or two, abdicate the throne. If Lexa abdicates, they both die. If Lexa attacks, she will be able to defend herself, but Clarke will die, and then she will die, too. 

This is Lexa’s truth: she either summons the Reaper, or they both die. 

Nia doesn’t know they’re soulbound, so Nia’s truth is that Lexa won’t abdicate the throne because she refuses to sacrifice Clarke. No matter what may cause Lexa’s death, Nia will make sure that every person in the kru world will learn that their beloved Heda gave up the throne, gave up her people, to save her skai girl. This cannot happen. Aden is not old enough, wise enough, strong enough – not yet, not even with Indra’s help – to fight against Nia’s campaign to conquer Heda’s throne. 

This is Lexa’s truth: she will fight till her dying breath to make sure that Nia doesn’t succeed. Lexa is not yet dead, and there is only one thing she is able to do about it. A plan forms in her head. It’s dangerous, yes, but there is only one other choice, and Lexa refuses to dishonor the black blood in her veins by giving up.

Lexa turns to face Clarke again. She takes a moment, allows herself to reminisce the exact shade of blue that colors Clarke’s eyes. Lexa wants to kiss the crinkle between her eyebrows, but knows she might not ever get another chance, and it leaves an ache in her chest that she knows Clarke can feel. It’s there on her trembling lips and the silent need to comfort Lexa. It’s there in the invisible, unbreakable bond that ties them together.

“Trust me,” Lexa says, holding Clarke’s gaze. “I will fix it.”

“Do what you have to do,” Clarke says, too weak to speak any less than a hoarse whisper.

It happens fast. Lexa steps closer, connecting their left arms in an arm grip so that Clarke’s bright half of the mark in her palm touches the dark half of the mark on Lexa’s wrist. The channel opens effortlessly, just like when they opened the wooden chest. The key has been activated.

It feels like a hurricane thrashing through their bodies, and Clarke clings to Lexa’s arm with her free hand while Lexa grabs the back of Clarke’s head pressing their foreheads together. From the outside, there’s no sign of anything happening, but Lexa sees the path clearly, feels the walls of the maze she has so often visited in her dreams rise around her. 

The maze does not exist in this time or space, but it’s very real in their minds. It happens within seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Lexa guides Clarke through the maze of vine-covered stone walls until they reach the opening gap in the ground. While they both know this has to happen, it still takes them by surprise, and it still leaves them with racing hearts and fear crawling on their skin.

 _Lexa_ , Clarke shrieks inside their minds as the walls begin to cave in on them. Lexa doesn’t get a chance to speak before the wall forces them to fall into darkness.

The heat from the monochromatic wall of fire is nipping at their skin even before their feet touch the ground. A growl hits them with a ferocious force. The bloodred eyes of the Reaper shoot open and fixates its hungry glare on them through the flames that hold it captive. 

_Now what?_

_We set it free._

_You can’t be serious, Lexa._

_We have no choice._

_Are you kidding me? Do you remember what you told me? Both our worlds could cease to exist._

_I will not let it come to that._

_What? You think you can control it? That’s insane, Lexa._

_We have no choice, Clarke._

_We can surrender._

_No. Nia will cause much more damage than what the Reaper will ever get a chance to. We will release it, but only shortly, just enough to distract Ontari. Trust me._

In their minds, Clarke hesitates because this decision is too big for her to make. It’s the burden of Heda, not of the skai girl who only just learned about her heritage. This is Heda’s decision, and Clarke trusts Lexa, so she nods and gives Lexa full access to her mind. 

_I do trust you._

The flames dissolve in front of them opening a gap for the Reaper to pass through. It roars sending waves of terror through their bodies.

On the field where Clarke and Lexa are surrounded by a ring of guards, the roar manifests itself in an explosion of sound that leaves terror in men trained to kill. It’s so powerful that Ontari falls backwards. And for just a fragment in time, a column of light connects the ground to the sky. There’s no denying it; the Reaper is escaping.

The ground rumbles beneath their feet, but Lexa doesn’t waver. Everything happens according to plan. Titus taught her of this beam of light that connects the Reaper to the physical world, and because Lexa and Titus has studied the Legend of Praimfaya meticulously many times, Lexa knows that she still has the control; not for long, though, but long enough.

In their minds, Clarke fights alongside Lexa to keep the walls of flames from dying out. With access to Clarke's mind, Lexa wills the flames to cover up the gap again capturing the Reaper once more. 

It seems easy. 

Clarke stares at the angry flames, feels the heat penetrate her skin. The Reaper roars once more, and Clarke doesn’t understand that it was _this easy_. But then she looks at Lexa whose entire body is trembling as she fights the pain.

_Lexa._

_I am okay. I… I will be okay. It is time to go back._

As their minds find their way back to the physical world, Clarke learns that she too feels Lexa’s pain. Lexa used a lot of energy fighting the Reaper, and Clarke wants to heal her – heal them – but she’s afraid to use energy that they’ll need for other purposes, so she does what Lexa does and bites down on the pain and wills herself to stay strong. 

“Nia?” Lexa calls as she spins to face the woman clad in white.

“Where is the land you promised me?” Nia asks, impatient, irritated, perhaps a bit mockingly.

“Stop hiding behind your men,” Lexa roars. “I am risking my life to honor our agreement. The least you can do is face me.”

Two hands push against the shoulders of two guards, and Nia steps into the circle. Lexa hangs her head for two seconds, taking a deep breath before meeting Nia’s gaze. Lexa looks weak, weaker than she is at the moment, and Clarke wonders if this charade was part of the plan all along.

“Do you trust the beam of light that connects two worlds to speak the truth, Nia?” Lexa says, enunciating every word with purpose.

Nia narrows her eyes, studying Lexa as she considers the question.

“Do you, Nia?” Lexa demands an answer.

“I do,” Nia speaks.

“We need to recharge to finish it,” Lexa says. Her intention is not to summon the Reaper fully, but to push Nia’s buttons.

“You are a liar,” Nia spits, her face pulling a look of disgust. She spins on her heel to walk away and says, “I will have your skai girl killed too.”

Nia’s last word hits Lexa with the same force as the Reaper’s growl, and it punches through her heart. What she suspected many years ago has suddenly been revealed, and Lexa moves forward, hands balled into fists by her thighs.

“Did you kill Costia?” Lexa roars.

Nia freezes for a second, only now realizing what she let slip. With force in her steps, she hurries towards safety behind her wall of guards, but Lexa is fast. She thrusts her hands forward, swiping Nia’s legs out under her with a stream of air. Lexa is almost there, ready to force the answer out of Nia when a jolt of something sharp rams into her back. 

Ice.

Lexa’s cry of pain mingles with Ontari’s angry shouting, and Lexa spins around to shield herself from Ontari’s onslaught. Lexa’s weapon is a specialized combination of fire and air that is able to hold Ontari’s ice from ever reaching her.

“No!” Clarke roars as she tackles Ontari from the side. 

They stumble to the ground, and Lexa watches in slow motion as Ontari twists her torso to attack Clarke instead. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees the guards lifting their hands waiting for an order. 

But it never comes.

Instead, a violent scream rings through the air and it dies as fast as it was born. As soon as Lexa sees the lifeless body on the ground, she moves fast. Nia yells something from behind her, but Lexa is quick and twirls once, sending a shockwave through the air knocking out anyone who’s standing up, and before their bodies hit the ground, Lexa has knocked Nia out as well.

The sight that meets Lexa is the most painful thing she has ever had to witness. She stands frozen, adrenaline pumping through her veins, watching Clarke get back on her feet as she stares at her hands that are violently trembling. Clarke takes a step backwards and spins around only to fall to her hands and knees as she vomits. Even from her position twenty feet away, Lexa sees the bile coloring the white ground with a sickly yellow substance. Lexa feels Clarke’s emotions, and she understands why Clarke is breaking apart; what Clarke did. She runs to Clarke, kneels at her side and rests a hand on her back.

“Lexa!” Someone yells from afar, rushing footsteps moving closer. 

Lexa knows the voice, but she can’t move her eyes away from Clarke. “You are okay,” Lexa murmurs, enveloping Clarke with her arms. “It is over.”

“What happened?” Anya says, kneeling in front them.

“I k-killed her.” Clarke whispers.


	28. XXVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
> (Or Hogmanay, or whatever you may call this day... or just simply a pleasant Sunday evening if that's what your're celebrating.)
> 
> This chapter is another favorite of mine, and it may seem odd to you, but it was very challenging to write, and I'm really proud of what came out of it.  
> I hope you will enjoy it as well <3
> 
> See you in the new year :)  
> ~anonbeme

# XXVIII

 

 

The snow covered field beneath Lexa’s knees is merciless and leaves an icy ache that shivers through her bones. It’s the least of her worries right now, and she grits her teeth against her body’s protest in favor of taking care of the broken woman in her arms. Clarke is shaking, incoherent whispers escape her lips, and Lexa tightens her hold. 

Lexa doesn’t understand what Anya is doing here, but when she finally looks up to meet the eyes of her most trusted, she feels relief. There are too many things to take care of right now, and all Lexa is able to do is hold Clarke. Lexa needs Anya’s help, and as if reading her mind, Anya stands and shakes off her coat. 

“Here.”

Lexa looks at the black fabric hanging from Anya’s hand. She casts a brief glance at the thin, long sleeved shirt that covers Anya’s torso and then shakes her head. “You need it. I will give her mine.”

“You both need it more than I do. Take it.”

Lexa accepts the coat with a solemn nod, and while she wraps it around Clarke, Anya goes to kneel next to Ontari’s body. Lexa takes a moment to see what Anya sees: the lifeless body lying next to them, how it half twists in an unnatural position, and the black blood that has spilled from Ontari’s lips has already coagulated into dramatic smudges down one chin. 

As Anya presses a palm against Ontari’s chest, Lexa sees the million questions being born behind brown eyes. 

“Was it the beam of light?” Anya asks. 

“You saw that?” 

“That’s how I knew where to find you.” Anya lingers by Ontari’s side for another five seconds, and then she rises to her feet scanning the circle of unconscious guards. 

“It was not the beam,” Lexa says. She looks over her shoulder in the direction of Nia, frowning and contemplating. “I will tell you later. All of it. But right now I need you to prepare Nia and Ontari for the journey back.” 

“What about… the rest?”

“We cannot bring them all, and they are harmless without their queen. We will deal with them later.”

“Sha, Heda,” Anya says and walks towards Nia’s body. 

As Anya gets to work, Lexa shifts to kneel in front of Clarke and takes her face in her hands. 

“Clarke. Look at me.”

Clarke’s eyelashes flutter, and she draws in a shaky breath. When she lifts her eyes to meet Lexa’s, they are distant and wet, and Lexa knows there’s nothing she can do to erase the pain that is now entangled with Clarke’s soul. 

Apologies and promises sit on Lexa’s tongue, but she swallows them along with the guilt because they are no good right now. She needs to get Clarke out of here and back into safety. Only then can she worry about how best to help Clarke; how best to make amends.

From her coat pocket, Lexa draws a glass bottle, pulls the cork out, and holds it up for Clarke to take. “Drink. You will feel better soon.”

With a trembling hand, Clarke takes the bottle and downs the liquid. They sit in silence for a while, knees still buried in the snow next to a yellow patch of bile. It’s okay, because Lexa can see that Clarke is trying to get up, and although she hasn’t moved an inch yet, her eyes are now focused and taking in her surroundings. Slowly, fragments of the Clarke Lexa knows appear from the depths of whatever prison she has locked herself into. It’s the stubbornness that seep into her eyes, and it’s the sad frown that suddenly grows angry.

It’s the way Clarke’s hands find Lexa’s arms, gripping to steady herself. It’s the will to not be stuck.

“We need to move, Clarke. Can you walk?” Lexa asks, a soft murmur.

Clarke’s eyes fall to the ground between them, but she nods and pushes against Lexa to support herself as she rises to her feet, and Lexa follows her movement not letting go until she’s sure Clarke is balanced. Quietly she presses a kiss to Clarke’s forehead before letting go with a look that tells Clarke that she’ll be right back.

Lexa knows that Anya has everything under control, but she wants to help; the sooner they’re out of here, the better. Nia has already been equipped with the blocker on her wrist so she can’t do any harm when she comes to. Lexa checks the rope that ties her hands on her back, appreciative of Anya’s flawless work.

“Wake her when you’re ready to go. I will carry Ontari,” Anya says. 

It’s not a command, she knows better than to command Lexa, but it’s a compromise of what little resources they have right now. It’s an offer that they both know Lexa shouldn’t turn down. Instead, Lexa makes a silent promise to relieve Anya as soon as she begins to look tired. They will take turns carrying the burden of Ontari.

Soon they’re on their way. Lexa walks behind a silenced Nia – Lexa had threatened Nia with a death much more painful than the one awaiting her if she were to speak just one single word on their travels, and Nia had cowered, first under Lexa’s furious eyes, then under Anya’s. 

Behind Lexa, Clarke walks with her eyes cast downwards, hands pushed deep into the pockets of the borrowed coat. Her eyes are glued to Lexa’s feet finding an odd sort of comfort in the rhythm of one foot being placed in front of the other. 

If Clarke looks up, she sees Nia: a death to come. 

If Clarke looks back over her shoulder, she sees Anya carrying Ontari like a sack of potatoes over her shoulder: a life that ceased to exist. 

If Clarke looks inwards she sees a murderer, someone who _took a life_. Clarke may not be the same Clarke she was before she met Lexa, but she swore an oath once, one that brings her pride and was the first brick in the foundation of becoming a doctor: First, do no harm. So Clarke keeps looking at Lexa’s feet that shuffles forward through snow covered paths because it’s the only thing that doesn’t remind her of death. As they walk, Clarke feels as if being stuck in an endless loop, and she doesn’t realize they’ve stopped until she hears Lexa’s voice.

“No.”

“Lexa, you need rest. Clarke needs rest. We still have long way to go. Just for a moment, okay? Rest up.”

Clarke blinks. The scenery has changed, and if Clarke didn’t know any better, she’d think she’d lost most of a year, and lost her mind in the process. But she’s in Heda’s world, and that alone seems a plausible explanation. Autumn lays below her feet, orange and red leaves fallen from the half naked trees, they’re crisp under the soles of her shoes where the snow was cracking and crunching not long ago. And Clarke realizes, that while her body still trembles, it’s no longer from freezing. 

It’s a peculiar thing, walking through seasons in what Clarke is sure must be less than a day. Intrigued, Clarke looks up, already not listening to whatever Anya and Lexa are arguing about, because the sight in front of her has her full attention. Ontari is lying on the ground and Nia is forced into a kneeling position next to her. Even though Clarke can’t see Nia’s face, she envisions a mortified expression of sorrow and hatred. A mother mourning her murdered daughter. It squeezes around Clarke’s lungs, and Lexa responds immediately, moving to stand in front of her.

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, her emerald eyes so tender that Clarke nearly chokes on nothing but air.

Everything is crystal clear, the concern on Lexa’s face, the soft hands warming her cheeks, the careful voice that calms Clarke’s heart. Everything is _clear_. Still, Clarke can’t explain how she suddenly finds herself guided into a dark room. She registers the stone walls and the small size of what’s not quite a house, and she lets Lexa push her into a sitting position on something benchlike. It’s cold and hard, but it doesn’t matter because her legs are no longer carrying her weight, and it’s a relief she didn’t know she needed. 

“Lay down, Clarke,” Lexa says.

Clarke shakes her head, and she doesn’t know why. 

Lexa kneels in front of her, hands resting on her knees, fingers rubbing soothingly along her thighs. “Let me in,” she whispers, begging, and it’s as if those words alone are the key to unlock the things Clarke hasn’t been able to grasp until now.

“I killed her.”

“You saved me. You saved _us_.”

“I took a life, Lexa.” Clarke searches for Lexa’s eyes, but it’s too dark to find the comfort she seeks, so she squeezes her eyes shut instead. Anger boils in her lungs and she lets out a noise halfway between a sob and a frustrated growl. “I’m a doctor–a healer. I’ve dedicated my life to fix people. _Save_ them. I took a life, Lexa, and I don’t even know how I… These hands? I don’t–” 

Clarke inhales, forceful and desperate, as she stares blindly at her trembling hands, the darkness stinging her eyes. In a brittle voice, one that’s barely a sound but speaks a thought too large for her shattered heart to contain, she says, “what if it happens again? What if I can’t control it?”

_I will teach you. I promised I would teach you._

Those are the first words that come to mind, but Lexa stays silent as she takes Clarke’s hands and presses a kiss into her palms, letting her lips linger on Clarke’s mark. 

_It is what it is. We cannot change the past so we must learn to leave it behind and move forward._

The words that have saved Lexa from going insane many times are on the tip of her tongue, and she means to share them with Clarke, but when she opens her mouth to speak, it’s a much louder truth that fills the void. 

“I would have killed her myself if I could. It may have been your hands, Clarke, but it was my wish. You do not carry this alone.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“No.”

Clarke sighs, and Lexa doesn’t need any source of light to know that Clarke is fighting to hold back her tears. 

“It is to remind you that you are not alone,” Lexa says, and she listens to Clarke’s breathing, listening for any sign that she said the wrong thing, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she feels Clarke’s hands shift to entwine their fingers, and Lexa gives them a squeeze finding comfort in this shared moment of intimacy. It seems to give her the courage she didn’t think she needed to speak her next words. 

“Do not ignore the darkness for it will swallow you whole if you do. Look for the light, Clarke. It does not have to be big, but you will n–”

Clarke’s hands trail up Lexa’s arms until they find her shoulders. It’s soft and deliberate, and it makes Lexa forget her words. Soon she finds herself being pulled closer, into Clarke’s arms, and she understands what Clarke is trying to say. 

_You are my light._

For a timeless moment, they exist only in the darkness of the abandoned stone chapel. It wraps around them like a blanket, silencing everything on the outside, and Lexa rests on her knees between Clarke’s legs as they pull each other closer. 

For a timeless moment they are each other’s tiny flicker of light. 

 

°*°

 

The sun is bright and violent as Lexa exits the little chapel, and she lifts a hand to shade her eyes as she looks for Anya. She finds her sitting up against the nearest tree, arms crossed over her chest and eyes glued to Nia’s back. In front of Nia lies an improvised gurney of sticks and ropes to which Ontari has been tied. Anya has always been resourceful, and vengeful, and Lexa knows that the position of Ontari is no coincidence; it’s Anya’s way of taunting Nia. 

Lexa locks eyes with Anya across the distance and greets her with a small nod. She then looks at Nia and takes a moment to study her. She is quietly accepting the kneeling position, her blank eyes glued to the ground between her knees and Ontari’s body. It pleases Lexa in a way that makes her feel rotten inside; this itching need to snap the azgeda queen’s neck. It’s not who Lexa is, it’s not who Heda is supposed to be, but the knowledge of Nia once giving a kill order to end Costia’s life – she never does the dirty work herself – is driving Lexa very close to a point of no return. 

“I’ve been trying to make sense of this.”

Lexa looks up to find Anya standing next to her, eyes still glued to Nia. The twitch of her jaw, tells Lexa that she isn’t done speaking.

“The beam,” Anya demands in a voice low enough that Nia won’t be able to hear it, and when Lexa takes too long to answer, Anya silently explodes as she hisses out her next words. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s going on, Lexa.”

There’s fear in Anya’s voice. It’s so small that no one would see it unless they knew where to look. But Lexa recognizes it easily; it’s the same fear that always burns in Anya’s eyes when Lexa is badly hurt. 

“Nia gave me a proposition. Abdicate the throne, or she would have Clarke killed. And with the latest… development, you know I could not pick either.”

There’s an edge to Lexa’s voice that she is not proud of, something she wishes to bury forever, but Anya is Anya, the one who knows Lexa best, so she picks up on it. 

“You’d have sacrificed her,” Anya challenges, casting a quick sideways glance at Lexa. 

_Yes. No. I do not know._

“I would have chosen my people.”

Anya shakes her head, a tragic smile forming her lips. “No, Lexa. Don’t lie to yourself. The circumstances that led her to you are bigger than any of us, and I know you know that, too. She holds the other mark, which means she’s someone you need to be able to keep your people safe. Even if she wasn’t important to you, you’d still protect her.”

The half naked trees are pointing their crooked fingers towards the pale blue sky. They don’t hold any answers, and Lexa should know, she’s been combing them with her lost eyes while Anya spoke. 

Anya is right. 

Lexa shares her acknowledgement with a small nod. 

“Then what happened?” Anya prompts, not one to dwell on emotions when there’s work to be done. 

“I gave her a proposition of my own,” Lexa says, and she then tells Anya about her plan to stall time at any cost, and when that cost meant summoning the Reaper, Lexa had no choice but to do so. 

Anya frowns when something doesn’t make sense, and she nods when it does, always subtly gesturing to assure Lexa she’s present as she speaks. But when Lexa explains how Clarke killed Ontari, Anya freezes for a fragment of time, and Lexa knows what she’s thinking, it has crossed her mind, too. 

“Wanheda,” Anya frowns, thinking of a legend not many believes in. 

Wanheda: The ruler of Death. 

Kru philosophy is built upon the belief that the elements provide them with an energy meant to nourish life. The legend of Wanheda, someone whose energy _takes_ life, doesn’t fit into that picture. Even Titus is sceptical of its truth, always has been, and that’s something Lexa never takes lightly. 

“It sounds like a curse.” 

The voice is hoarse and dismissive, and Lexa spins, wide-eyed and out of breath to look at the owner. 

“Clarke.” 

Lexa feels apologetic, but it comes with silence and idle muscles even as Clarke avoids her eyes. It becomes unbearable, and Lexa panics as words fail to leave her mouth.

“Let’s get out of here,” Clarke says, toneless as she walks towards their prisoner. She stops after a couple of steps, not because she changed her mind, but to shrug off the borrowed coat. She returns the color of Heda’s Guard – black – to Anya with a fiery defiance not even Anya dares argue against. 

It takes Lexa by surprise, leaves her nonplussed and frozen when Clarke marches up to take a stand in front of Nia. There’s a hardness forming in Clarke’s eyes that is replicated in her clenching fists, something dangerous that has Lexa and Anya shooting out of their comatose state to intervene if needed. 

The first thing Lexa notices: Nia is terrified, cowering under Clarke’s glare. 

The second thing: Clarke’s anger is directed inwards. She looks at Nia as one facing a demon, and only because Lexa senses Clarke’s soul, does she realize that the demon is Clarke. 

Lexa allows it, knows that Clarke is asking herself who the monster really is. Lexa allows it because this is Clarke’s darkness, and she needs to acknowledge it. It might be a perverse reaction, but Lexa is proud of her. 

With a calmness no one expects, Clarke looks from Nia to the body on the gurney. She positions herself by one end and flexes her fingers getting ready to pick it up. She looks at Anya and Lexa and silently asks who’s taking the other end. 

“Clarke, you–”

“Let me do this, Lexa.”

A silent nod from Lexa is all it takes for Anya to take position as the front carrier. They lift the gurney and waits for Lexa to pull Nia to her feet to begin the second half of their journey. Lexa guides them through the forest, this time down official paths because it’s a shorter journey and she no longer needs to be careful who sees her. 

It’s still a long journey.

Lexa says it’s about the same distance as is already behind them, and Clarke realizes she has no clue what that means. It’s not like she remembers much from the first part of the journey. 

Their first break begins as soon as they come across a bush with edible berries. They look like blueberries and tastes mostly of water, but they fill the aching pit in Clarke’s stomach so she doesn’t care to ask what they’re called. Lexa’s smile is soft as their eyes meet, and for the first time since Clarke surrendered herself to Ontari, she thinks that maybe, just maybe it’s possible to be okay. Not now, not anytime soon, but someday. 

In the darkness of her mind where demons growl and their bloodred eyes pulsate to the rhythm of her heart, there’s a small flame burning the color of Lexa’s eyes fighting to stay alive. 

 

°*°

 

The tower appears in the distance, it grows taller as it crawls closer, and it seems to awaken an awareness that Clarke’s body is awfully tired, agonizingly sore, and not at all ready to face whatever awaits them by the plaza. The gurney is heavy in her hands, and there isn’t a fiber in her body that doesn’t scream for a much needed relief, but there’s still a way to go. It’s not far; Clarke is beginning to recognize paths she has walked down before, and she can hear the buzzing of voices from the plaza in the distance, but every single step is laborious and painful, and the tower seems infinitely far away just the same.

“Stay strong,” Lexa murmurs.

A warm hand finds rest between Clarke’s aching shoulder blades, and while it lays there, Clarke decides it’s possible; to stay strong; to hang on to the light. 

There’s a muffled gasp, and Clarke looks for the source only to find a woman with grey streaks in her hair standing at the edge of the path they walk down. Fingers lifted to her lips, the woman follows Nia with wide eyes, and she allows a frightened glance at the dead body on the gurney before she looks to her Heda and bows her head.

“Heda,” the woman greets, almost apologetically. 

Clarke watches as Lexa waits for the woman to meet her eyes again before she repays the greeting. It’s not a smiling Heda that greets the woman, not this time, but the situation doesn’t exactly call for it either. However, Clarke takes notice of the pride that lifts Lexa’s chin, and the gratitude that softens the woman’s eyes, and it shows, even in Lexa’s current state where darkness and duty calls her name, that Lexa cares for her people at all times.

The woman eyes Clarke with something akin curiosity, but not quite. And it’s not quite fear either. Awe, maybe? It makes Clarke’s skin crawl uncomfortably with emotions she can’t name. She drops her eyes to Ontari’s lifeless feet, but when they can’t find rest, she glues her eyes back onto Anya’s swaying shoulders. The steady rhythm lulls her back into a timeless state of mind that allows her to ignore the pain in her heart.

They keep walking, keep ignoring their burning muscles, and their empty stomachs, and their dry throats.

By the time they step onto the plaza, a tail of curious eyes and murmuring voices have formed behind them. Men, women, kids. A crowd is gathering fast, a jumble of whispers and shouts.

There’s an abominable tension more blusterous than the chaos in Clarke’s head, and it’s too much. 

Too intense.

Violent.

White spots disturb her vision, and she blinks to get rid of them, but it only gets worse. 

Gentle hands touch her shoulders, guide her away, up a set of white steps. 

Her hands are empty, the gurney’s handles replaced with a throbbing ache. She lifts them to examine her palms, her fingers. Blisters. Her skin is an angry red, worn thin by the friction caused by rough bark.

“Be careful with her, Nyko,” Lexa says, and Clarke feels the healer’s gentle hands on her shoulders. 

“Sha, Heda. Do not worry.”

Nyko presses one hand against Clarke’s chest and the other against the nape of her neck. She feels her skin tingle, knows that he’s examining the damage. He learns quickly of her injured hands and she curls her fingers into defiant fists telling him not to heal them. 

“Can I bandage them?” Nyko asks.

Clarke nods, small but certain. She looks at him, grateful that he understands, and while he rummages his pockets for something – remedies, most likely, gauze, if they have that here – Clarke catches Lexa’s eyes over his shoulder. They are the most vibrant green Clarke has ever seen. And for a long time it’s all Clarke needed to feel safe, but right now they hold a sorrow that makes Clarke’s throat burn.

“Go,” Clarke says, and because Lexa stays put, Clarke repeats it. “I’m okay. Go.”

Clarke is not okay, not the way she knows Lexa wishes her to be. But there’s a plaza full of people expecting their Heda to guide them, and an idle leader is not a leader at all, and Clarke doesn’t want to be the cause of that.

“Stay strong,” Lexa mouths, lingering for a moment that’s too long and not long enough before taking a stand on the highest point of the marble stairs to address the crowd.

Something cold and creamy is rubbed into the back of Clarke’s hands, and Clarke’s immediate response is to squeeze her fists tighter. 

“It is for the inflammation,” Nyko explains.

Clarke allows it, uncurls her fists and feels the skin stretch painfully. The cream is icy cold against the swollen skin, it makes her hiss out in pain, and even though it’s unbearable, a voice inside her head tells her she doesn’t deserve Nyko being this gentle, she deserves the pain.

As Nyko wraps strips of something cloth-like around Clarke’s hands, the crowd goes silent, leaving a sudden vacuum, a ringing in their ears. They both look towards Lexa who now stands tall, stoic, as she lowers her hand that silenced the crowd.

“You must be confused. And angry,” Lexa calls out, her voice loud and clear. “You did not get justice when I postponed Jossiah’s punishment, but I am not sorry. An urgent matter demanded my attention, and as you can see, I have detained Nia Kom Azgeda.”

The crowd whirs and buzzes, and Lexa has to lift her hand, dictating silence once more.

“Nia Kom Azgeda has been charged with treason. I ask for your patience once more. I need time to investigate further, but I assure you, that the next time I speak to you, I will give you justice, and I will give you the truth, and you will have your natronas.”

At that, Lexa spins on her heel to retreat to the tower. On her way, she stops next to Indra. “Put Nia in the dungeon and leave Ontari’s body by the bottom of the stairs. Have it guarded in case someone decides they have waited long enough.”

“Sha, Heda.”

“Have Nyko take Clarke to the suite. And food. Plenty of food. And…” Lexa pauses, and sighs tiredly. “I need rest, Indra. Anya knows enough to fill you in. I will find you later, but do not hesitate to come get me if I am required.”

“Of course, Heda. I have it under control.”

“I know you do.”


	29. XXIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> Here's chapter 29 (of 33). It's the longest chapter yet, only maybe beaten by the last chapter which I'm currently writing... there's no way to tell yet :) 
> 
> Wordcount wise I should've probably split this in two, but it works better like this, so... yeah... here goes: Lexa returned from Ice Nation with their traitors and a broken Clarke... Here's what happens next.
> 
> There are a lot of small elements in this chapter that I really, really love. I hope you will like it to!?
> 
> Enjoy <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XXIX

 

 

From the small balcony of Heda’s suite on the eighth floor, Lexa watches the plaza below with a thoughtfulness that seems almost morose. Grave. The crowd has begun to dissolve, going back to their routines, their minds swimming with an unrest Lexa doesn't need to see their faces to know exists. The almost hesitant pace indicates it. The deafening lack of the joyful voices that usually fills the air makes it a certainty. The plaza isn't quiet, it's just… thoughtfully simmering; just like Lexa. 

Lexa watches as Indra’s guards prepare Ontari's body. They leave the gurney untouched by the foot of the marble stairs, but place a circle of torches around it. They're lit with a fiery, red flame. Two guards stay nearby, commanding a small group of angry onlookers to stay back. It’s a harmless riot at the moment, but Lexa knows she doesn’t have much time before the situation gets out of hand. Her guards can deal with a small group, but the disturbance is a small seed that has been planted, and once it has grown into a sturdy tree, it will become hard to control.

There’s work to be done. Indra will handle most of it, but Lexa needs to be there for Nia’s interrogation, and when that happens, Lexa needs to be ready; at her best.

First of all, Lexa needs to check in with Clarke, and then she needs to recharge. They both do. 

As if on cue, Clarke enters the room, barely a shadow of herself and a tragic contrast against the memories flashing behind Lexa’s eyes: Clarke was smiling and almost bursting with pride the last time they stood in this room and Lexa offered to braid her hair. It seems a long time ago, more than just the handful of sunrauns it has actually been.

They stare at each other for a while, frozen in place.

Then Clarke’s lips start trembling and water spills from her eyes, and when she inhales her first desperate gulp of air, Lexa moves forward as if Clarke had pulled at her body with tight strings. 

Lexa holds Clarke’s head, hands on her cheeks, eyes tethered to Clarke's, not allowing Clarke to curl inwards. Lexa's voice is a whisper carried by the only truth that matters: “You are Clarke Griffin.” 

Clarke’s tears are warm and moist, and when Lexa wipes them away, they smudge the dirt – the remnants of their journey through the forest – that has settled on Clarke’s skin. Without a word, Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and guides her to the bathroom where she has prepared a bathtub. 

A faint trail of steam rises from the tub, the room is filled with a soft scent of something sweet and pleasant, flowery. Lexa gives Clarke’s hand a squeeze meaning to retreat back to the main room. After all that has happened, Clarke should be allowed some privacy.

“Stay.” Clarke’s voice is small, her grip is strong around Lexa’s hand.

So Lexa stays, silently watching as Clarke begins to undress. It's careful, her injured hands fumbling with the hem of her shirt, her shoulders curling painfully as she pulls it over her head. Clarke pulls down her pants and steps out of them, and she looks at the bathtub with a thoughtful frown before meeting Lexa's gaze again. 

“You too.” 

It takes Clarke stepping closer before the words absorb in Lexa’s mind. Clarke’s next command is wordless as her hands gently push Lexa's coat off her shoulders. And to spare Clarke from unnecessary pain, Lexa removes her own shirt swiftly, then her pants, and as she slides off her underwear, Clarke is already halfway into the bathtub. 

It’s not a big bathtub. It holds one person comfortably, and Lexa worries it won’t have room for two. Her hands grasp the edge of the sturdy wooden tub as she lowers herself into the water – slowly, eyes on the water level. Barely in, and Clarke stops her with a hand on her forearm.

“Turn around.”

It’s a tight fit, but it’s manageable. As Lexa settles between Clarke’s legs, she feels Clarke’s hands slide up her back, fingers stopping halfway.

“Does it hurt?” Clarke asks, examining the deep, black bruise that covers most of Lexa’s left shoulder blade with a doctor’s eye. She wonders if the black color is because of Lexa’s blood, or if that’s just what it looks like to be attacked by a stream of ice. In the back of her mind, a voice wonders if her handprints are embedded onto Ontari’s body where she touched her when she– 

No.

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, for a second, to rid herself of the image.

“It could be worse.”

“Want me to heal it? Or… try?”

Lexa shakes her head, soft and slow. “No. I want to keep it. Just like… your hands.”

Clarke kisses Lexa's uninjured shoulder and reaches for a sponge which she lathers with the purple bar of soap, the one that smells of lavender. She touches it to Lexa's back and moves it in small, gentle circles. Even the lightest grip on the soap hurts her hand. 

“Clarke.” Lexa means to stop Clarke, not wanting to be the cause of Clarke hurting unnecessarily, when Lexa is perfectly capable of bathing herself. 

“Let me– I want to. Let me do this.”

In Clarke’s voice, Lexa hears all she needs to understand that Clarke needs her pain to matter; taking care of Lexa is one way to do it. So Lexa relaxes under the sponge, silently telling Clarke to go on. 

“My left shoulder hurts more,” Clarke says, broken eyes looking at Lexa's bruise. “Do you feel my hands too?”

“Yes.”

Clarke moves the sponge up Lexa’s back, over her shoulder, down an arm. She halts, interfered by the realization that she's hurting Lexa with her selfishness. “I'm sorry… I can–”

“–No.” Lexa takes the sponge from Clarke's hand and leaves it floating on the water's surface as she wraps her hands around Clarke's, gently uncurling fingers until red, swollen skin and large blisters are revealed. She kisses Clarke's palm with careful lips. “You do not carry this alone.”

Clarke leans forward, forehead pressed into Lexa's spine as she wraps her arms around Lexa's torso. She nods, she understands what Lexa is trying to convey, and underneath the self destruction, Clarke is grateful. 

They sit there wrapped in a timeless void where Clarke waits for her mind to stop spinning, and Lexa waits for Clarke's breathing to even out again. Then Lexa shifts to face Clarke, and this is a tight fit, too – Clarke's legs on the outside, Lexa's bending so her knees appear above water – but this way, Lexa can read Clarke through the silence and speak to her without saying a word. She gives Clarke the sponge again, and with the ghost of a smile, Clarke takes it and presses it against Lexa's skin.

Clarke washes every inch of Lexa's skin that she can reach; it's almost therapeutic, and Clarke soon finds herself relaxing into the warmth of the water that enwraps her. 

And Lexa returns the favor. With tender hands and oceans of time, she washes Clarke's body and rinses out her hair. After, she massages Clarke's shoulders with careful, but firm fingers until the noises that escape Clarke's lips are not of pain, but of relief and contentment. And when Clarke leans back, her head finding rest against Lexa's collarbone, Lexa wraps her arms around Clarke's torso and kisses her hair. 

It works for a sanctuary, and it may only exist in this moment, but between Heda's duty and Clarke's internal fight, this is something Lexa is able to give her. And in this moment, Lexa gives everything she has as if it's the last time she'll ever get the chance. 

 

°*°

 

When Lexa leaves the suite, Clarke is still asleep, still naked and wrapped in soft sheets. It had been a struggle to convince Clarke that she needed sleep in the first place – she worried about the nightmares, was sure they’d haunt her, and Lexa didn’t blame her – but Lexa had given her a dream catcher, and she’d laid down next to Clarke and watched her doze off effortlessly in less than a minute.

Lexa shuts the door behind her, reluctant to leave Clarke behind, but she has work to do, and sleep will do a better job protecting Clarke anyways. At least for now. Lexa stations Nyko on the eighth floor knowing that Clarke will be safe under his care when she wakes up. And she stations Lincoln on the ground floor knowing he’ll look after Clarke outside of the tower if needed. 

The black coat with Heda’s color on the shoulder is clean, smells fresh, and holds no trace, none at all, of the events at the ice caves. Lexa’s mind is a different matter, though – it’s tumultuous, her thoughts thrown around like a hurricane. 

On her way to the dungeon, Lexa picks up Indra and Anya, and on a hunch, she decides to bring Roan as well. They walk in silence, and Lexa spends the time meticulously cleaning her mind, putting her thoughts in order. 

There’s Nia.

There’s Jossiah.

And Lexa has so many questions. They are connected, somehow, but Lexa doesn’t have proof. 

“Roan?” Lexa stops to look at the man whom she almost doesn’t recognize anymore. He’s stripped from his azgeda arrogance, and it surprises Lexa to learn that she trusts the man.

“Yes, Heda.”

“Nia hired Jossiah, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was the perfect decoy. She offered him a deal he could not decline. I suspect her of never planning to uphold her part of the deal.”

Lexa searches Roan’s eyes and finds nothing but honesty. He’s awfully willing to sell out his mother, but Lexa knows Roan well enough to know that the truth is offered because he doesn’t want to be linked to the corruption he’s not a part of. He distances himself from his mother’s methods, not to save his own ass, but to lift himself above the indecency of his bloodline. He doesn’t want it to smear his name more than it already has.

Lexa presumed that Jossiah was a decoy a long time ago, but something is nagging her.

“How?”

At that, Roan’s lips curl into a subtle smile touched by pride. “I thought that was obvious, Heda.”

“A mole.” Lexa states. Yes, it’s obvious, but she’d hoped it wasn’t the case, and as Heda, she can’t afford to rule her land based on assumptions.

Roan nods, his expression carefully humorous, but humble under Lexa’s glare. 

“I assume this is you telling me you do not know of this mole’s name, correct?” Lexa asks.

“His identity is unknown to anyone but my mother, but it does not matter. He took his own life when his job was done, that is all I know.”

Lexa studies him for a while, then nods silently as she begins walking again. She ignores Anya’s impatient eyes instead pointing her gaze forward; the entrance to the dungeon is visible now.

“Jossiah did not kill Costia,” Lexa says, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Roan’s head snap towards her. He frowns, and Lexa isn’t sure why. Lexa clenches her jaw to keep the anger below the surface. “Did you know?”

“I suspected it.”

“Your mother hired someone to kill her.” The words are deliberately formed in an accusation to draw a reaction from Roan – any reaction. The truth is, that Nia will be punished for treason and bribery, and that alone means she’ll be sentenced to an afterlife of eternal anguish. Insisting on learning the truth of Nia having Costia murdered has two purposes: one, to clear Jossiah’s name from the inaccurate accusation, and two, to get the truth out in the open. On a personal level, Lexa needs closure and to know that Costia was avenged rightfully. On a professional level, she needs all the help she can get to justify keeping Jossiah alive; pardoning a murderer is not a possibility, and she needs to convince her people that he isn’t one.

Roan’s frown grows deeper, and for a moment, angry. His voice is tired when he finally speaks. “I want to say that she is above it, but I do not believe it myself. Are you sure?”

“She implied it,” Lexa says, deciding that if she needs Roan to be honest, she needs to be honest too. 

Roan sighs, long and deep, and he touches his hand to his mouth as he considers Lexa’s words. “Heda,” he says, his eyes shaded with pain and regret, “I do not have proof of my mother’s involvement, but when Costia met you and then rejected her birthright to inherit the throne… Costia knew too much of my mother’s ways. Considering her involvement with you, one would be a fool not to acknowledge that she was a potential liability.” 

They’ve reached the dungeon. Lexa stops to look at Roan again. She sets her jaw, one hand squeezing tightly around a wrist behind her back, and she has to remind herself that Roan is not the culprit, and that he has in fact been of much help.

“I want Nia’s confession. Will you help me get it?” Lexa asks.

“In what way?”

“Hopefully your presence will be enough. I do not ask of anything else.” It’s a bold move, but maybe signaling that Roan is on Heda’s side will be enough to shake Nia.

“I can do that.” Roan nods, and Lexa thinks he would have agreed to anything just to be able to watch the interrogation – undoubtedly, he needs closure as well. He was, after all, fond of his sister, and the only one of the family bloodline that Costia spoke nicely of.

They enter the dungeon, and Lexa leads him down corridors to the two adjacent cells that hold Jossiah and Nia. Gustus is there illuminated by the light stone on the wall, arms crossed over his chest and an unfazed expression on his face as he watches the prisoners – to observe only, in case they start to interact. Indra and Anya silently takes a stand on each side of Gustus, as instructed. They’re only to meddle should Lexa give them an order.

The first cell holds Jossiah. His fingers are curled around the bars lethargically, his forehead resting against the grubby metal as he follows Lexa with his eyes. “Heda,” he greets her in a tone just spiteful enough to express his resentment. Lexa ignores him as she walks by only stopping when she reaches Nia’s cell. She gestures for Roan to take a stand just behind her, and then she locks her eyes onto Nia not unlike a predator waiting for the right moment to attack its prey.

Nia sits on the floor, slouched up against the dirty wall. Her white cloak filthy, her blonde hair disheveled. The ice queen seems to have lost her grace.

“What?” Nia hisses. That’s all she does to acknowledge the presence of Lexa, head tipped back against the wall, eyes staying shut.

“I have only one question for you, Nia. It is your last chance to redeem yourself although you do not deserve it,” Lexa says, pausing to get her emotions in check. “Did you have Costia killed?”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Nia says, low and resentful. 

“Ohoho!” Jossiah’s taunting guffaw pollutes the air, but no one grants him any attention.

“Did you, mother?” Roan says, his voice laced with the venom Lexa feels in her heart, but is trained not to show.

At that Nia snaps her head to look at Roan who she clearly just learned was there. Her eyes are wide with terror, but even in her feeble state, she manages to pull a thunderous face. She doesn’t need to stand up to look down on Roan.

“Are you rejecting your name too, Roan?”

“No. I am taking it from you,” Roan says, cold fury boiling on his tongue. “Answer the question, mother!”

“Yes!” Nia roars, exhaling harshly. “She was a disgrace! You both are! Ungrateful bastards! I–”

“Enough!” Lexa’s voice rings in the tight space of the dungeon like thunder. She’s taken a precautionary step to the side, working as a human shield between Nia and Roan.

Lexa got what she came for.

It’s done.

She looks at Nia once more, a piercing glare, then says, “Indra, make preparations. A sunraun from now. Send for the ambassadors. Make sure to sound the horn.” 

“Sha, Heda.”

“Roan,” Lexa says, eyes still on Nia, “Azgeda is your legacy. Lead your clan with honor.”

Then Lexa turns on her heel and leaves the dungeon, knowing that Anya will make sure that Roan follows her.

 

°*°

 

Something hurts like hell. 

Something. 

Everything. 

Clarke needs to stretch, so she rolls over onto her back immediately regretting the decision. Every. Goddamn. Muscle. Hurts. 

Nevertheless, she lifts her arms above her head to stretch her entirety, holding her breath and gritting her teeth as the piercing ache slowly dissolves. 

She rubs her eyes with heel of her hands – the one area that doesn't feel inflamed.

She yawns.

Even yawning hurts. 

She lingers on the borders of barely awake, eyes sliding shut, weary and worn out. Still, she's aware of the hollow pit in her heart, and the remnants of the abduction, the ice caves, Nia, Ontari… 

… like ghosts, but still so very much alive. 

There's the knowledge that she fell asleep in Lexa's arms, under tender fingers’ caress, and with silent whispers in her hair. 

Clarke knows the spot next to her is empty. Still, her stomach drops when she twists her head to look. The sheets are cold in Lexa's wake, and it pokes to the little demon in Clarke’s stomach, the one that feeds the anxiety.

Lying still, doing nothing, is bad for the anxiety. It expands the space where it lives, allows for it to grow. So Clarke sits up, swings her aching legs over the side of the bed, groaning as her head begins to throb. Her eyes fall to her hands resting palm up in her lap; they're throbbing, too. The skin is still swollen and dark red, blisters still threatening to burst, the sight reminding Clarke why her heart is heavy. 

_You do not carry this alone._

A slice of light escapes through the curtains by the balcony door, and Clarke traces the orange beam across the floorboards with feeble eyes. Even in the barely there light is she able to see that the small table by the door is filled with foods and drinks – plenty of it, by the looks of it. Clarke isn't surprised to learn that between her aching muscles and her broken mind, her stomach holds a different kind of pain: she's hungry, so desperately craving to fill her stomach with nourishment.

Nausea be damned. 

Clarke defies the pain that comes with using stiff muscles and crosses the small distance between the bed and the table. She grabs a handful of flameberries because they taste good, and because they remind her of Lexa. She takes a peek through the gap in the curtains, and from what's visible of the plaza it's obvious that Heda's people have already returned to their daily routine. 

Clarke feels exposed, all of a sudden, like someone is laughing in her face, pointing a finger at her. She shivers against the void in the room, only now just realizing she's naked.

She goes to the dresser and picks out clothes by random, gets dressed, and because she can't stand the silence, she goes to leave the room. 

“Hello, Clarke.” Nyko has taken a seat on a three-legged stool in the hallway. He looks like someone who has been sitting there for a godawful long time, but still manages to find peace in his idleness. He turns his head, points his warm smile towards Clarke. “How are you?”

“How long have I slept?” Clarke frowns. 

“Half a sunraun.” 

“Half a…” Clarke runs a hand through her hair, feeling the disarray of locks tangle around her fingers – she went to bed hair still damp. She runs both hands through her hair to tame it, but it seems a lost cause. Her palms are stinging but she finds no reason to care. 

“Here.” Nyko holds up a hand, something caught between two fingers. A hair tie, it looks like. 

Curiously, Clarke takes it, runs a thumb along the dark green fabric that is soft like velvet. She smiles at Nyko before gathering her wild mane in a messy bun at her neck. It'll do for now. 

“Mochof.” Clarke allows a small, genuine smile curl a corner of her lips. 

“You are welcome.”

A horn bellows twice, a deep and alarming rumble that penetrates the walls of the tower as if they were nothing but thin air. It claws its way up Clarke's spine, her eyes widening as Nyko stands up, a worrisome look on his face. 

“What does it mean?” Clarke asks. 

“Heda has announced Nia's execution.”

“What?” That word – execution – makes Clarke sick to her guts. Afraid of the answer, Clarke still decide to voice her question. “Now?” 

“No. The horn will sound again, halfway, and then again when it is time.” 

Nyko watches her, observes the way she becomes visibly ill as the image of Nia's fate infiltrates her mind. Her eyes become unfocused, and her mouth moves as if her tongue tries to rid it of dryness. 

“I want to show you something,” Nyko says. He is patient as he waits for Clarke to look at him again. “Will you take a walk with me?”

“Okay,” Clarke says, moving her head in an absent-minded nod. The realization dawns on her that she doesn't want to be near the tower right now; the plaza just outside is too lively, and Clarke feels… not dead, just… not alive. She nods again, this time determined as she says, “please.”

They run into Lincoln on the ground floor, and Clarke stops in her tracks realizing the last time she saw him, he was protecting her from Ontari. 

“Good to see you, Clarke,” Lincoln says, his smile calm and welcoming. 

“You're okay,” Clarke whispers, the syllables barely escaping her lips before she attacks him in a hug. “Thank god,” she murmurs into his shoulder. 

His arms are strong, Clarke thinks, as they wrap around her shoulders. She feels safe. She feels… ashamed, too. She forgot about him. Or… Well, she didn't _forget_ him, just… Her mind has been elsewhere. 

“Octavia and Bellamy?” Clarke asks, taking a step back. 

“They're good too.”

“That's good, I'm uh… That's good to hear.” 

_I'm sorry,_ Clarke wants to say. _I'm sorry I put you in danger. I don't know what I'd have done if you'd been hurt because of me._

“It's our job, Clarke,” Lincoln says, as if able to read her mind. 

“No, I know.” Clarke looks towards the door. She knows it’s more than just a job for him. He takes great pride in serving Heda, and he'd risk his life to protect her even if she told him not to, and because Clarke is under Lexa’s protection, that service extends to her as well. Clarke is grateful for what he’s done for her, but she can’t help the thought that it’s not supposed to be like this. She’s supposed to take care of herself; just like she always has been.

Clarke is her own person.

Clarke needs to be her own person.

“You saved us.” Lincoln’s voice is frail, and it draws Clarke to look at him. His eyes are sad and humble when he says, “I didn’t do my job when I let you surrender yourself, but I knew it was our only option, and… I… You saved Heda, too. Do you understand?”

Clarke frowns. No, she doesn’t understand.

“We cannot serve Heda in death,” he then says, and Clarke thinks she understands that Lincoln was not able to make that call himself, bound by his duty to guard her with his life. 

“I get it,” Clarke says. “I think I get it.”

“I’m happy to see you’re okay.”

And Clarke nods, because that’s all she’s able to do. Then Nyko’s hand rests on her shoulder, and she looks at him.

“Come now. Let us begin our walk.”

 

°*°

 

They walk in silence, mostly. Nyko sometimes points out plants, and even though he knows Clarke isn't in the right mindset to receive new knowledge, he'll still talk about their healing effects. And while Clarke will have to ask him to explain everything again someday – when she's better… if that ever happens – she's grateful for his random intermissions. They're distracting her from dwelling in the darkness of her mind. 

After a while – a half an hour’s walk, maybe – children's voices reach her ears. Joyful little angel voices – playful and innocent. Her heart swells. 

There's a clearing in the trees, with lush grass and white flowers popping up here and there. A large wooden cabin stands proud against the edge of trees, and in front of it about fifteen children of many ages are playing. It's a playground, Clarke realizes, all installments crafted in the finest of wood. The monkey bars are popular, it seems. The swingset, too. 

There's a handful of children crowding a table. As Clarke approaches, she sees two children sitting across from each other. She remembers the boy. His name was something with A…? They're playing that game with the tiny pieces they have to tip over without touching them, and it makes Clarke smile. 

“Take your time, Tris, you can do it,” the boy says, and Clarke thinks the tone in his voice is much like the one that colored Lexa's voice when she played with him at the plaza. A patient teacher, a proud mentor. 

The girl is a little younger than him, maybe ten years old. She's scrawny, but radiating confidence. The way she locks her eyes onto a piece reminds Clarke of Anya, calculating and fierce. She bites her lip hard, works her jaw side to side, and when she flicks her finger – she's left handed, Clarke notices, like herself – a piece falls. Her eyes light up, and she curls her hand into a victor's fist. 

“Yes! I did it, Aden. Did you see?”

“I did, Tris. I told you, you could do it,” Aden grins.

“Nyko!” An excited voice calls, and Clarke turns to watch a boy run towards them. He's about the same age as Tris, scrawny, too. 

“Zoran!” Nyko grins as he catches the boy in a hug. “How are you today?” 

“I am fine, Nyko.” Zoran takes a step back and smiles up at Nyko. One side of his face is marred by deformity, one corner of his lips continuing up his cheek; not quite a scar; not quite a wound. Clarke wonders if he was born with it.

“Any pain?” 

“Not much. My hand a little bit.” Zoran holds up his right hand, and Nyko examines it. His pinky finger and the next two are stuck as one lump, and Nyko holds it between his own as he takes away Zoran’s pain. 

“Mochof,” Zoran says, and Nyko squeezes his shoulder with a large, gentle hand. 

“Anytime, Zoran.”

“Are you staying?” Zoran’s eyes are hopeful, innocent like a puppy. 

“A little while, yes.”

Then Zoran looks at Clarke, and he blinks leaving a puzzled looked on his face. 

“Zoran, this is Clarke. Clarke, this is my good friend Zoran,” Nyko says, winking at Zoran. 

“Nice to meet you, Zoran,” Clarke greets him, holding out her right hand, hoping he understands the gesture: Clarke doesn't care what his hand looks like. 

Zoran hesitates, looks at Nyko, and then decides it's okay. He meets Clarke in an arm grip, and the pride in Nyko’s eyes shine brighter than the sun. 

“Go on, Zoran. I will find you later,” Nyko says. “I will show Clarke around, and then we will join you for a meal.”

“Sha, Nyko.” Zoran grins and runs off again. 

Clarke takes in her surroundings. Some of the children are curiously looking her way, and it makes Clarke smile. 

“What is this place?” Clarke asks. 

“It is a foster home for young ones who have no family, or no home. It is Heda's personal project.”

“Lexa… Really?” Clarke watches the children by the monkey bars, mouth hanging open as if she can't put a sound behind the words she wants to speak. 

“Yes. She believes that everyone has potential to be great, they just need some guidance. Young ones without a home or a family do not have that guidance, so Heda provides it to them as best she can.”

Clarke's eyes land on the boy she recognizes from the plaza. “Aden?” 

“There was an outbreak of a very progressive disease in his home village. His parents did not survive it.”

“How old was he? How did he…” The doctor in Clarke has awoken. It is highly unusual that a child survives a disease that kills adults. It's a puzzle Clarke wants to solve. 

“He was only six. He is a special boy, that one. We believe his nightblood saved him.”

Nightblood. Right. For a while Clarke thought everyone from Heda's world had the peculiar black blood, but that theory was ruined when she remembered that her father had normal red blood. She knows Lexa’s blood is black, and now Aden, too. She has a vivid picture in her mind of black blood bubbling from Ontari's mouth. She remembers Lexa telling her about the old legends, that Heda once was the most powerful nightblood found in battle. That's all she knows. If she hadn't seen it with her own two eyes, she'd thought it was a myth, or at least a product of an imaginative mind. 

“Is nightblood… common?” Clarke asks. 

“Not at all. It seems nature has a way of balancing it on its own.”

“It's not hereditary?” 

“No. It chooses individuals with extreme potential.”

It confuses Clarke. She gets that the nightbloods are more powerful. But she thought it was because of the nightblood, not the other way around. 

“Come now, Clarke. Let me show you around, and we will talk connections between biology and the elements later.” Nyko smiles. He hoped the foster home would help Clarke forget her worries for a while, however, he did not expect it to happen this fast. He sees potential in Clarke, and he hopes she will find purpose here. The young ones need help to grow into adults, and Clarke never had a kru childhood. Who knows, maybe they can help each other.

Nyko shows her the cabin, their rooms, the common room, how their daily life is put together so it balances chores, education, and free play. 

Clarke is impressed, lost for words. She can't believe Lexa is behind all of this. But then again, she knows Lexa was an orphan once too, until Anya found her and took her in. Maybe this is Lexa paying it forward. 

They stay for a meal, and all the kids are eager to talk to Clarke. They answer questions about their hobbies and favorite things, and in return, Clarke tells them fairy tales of a land far away where the moon awakes when the sun goes to sleep, and twinkling lights dance on the night sky. They all look at her as if she must have lost her mind, except Aden, and Clarke wonders if maybe Lexa has taught him, or maybe even shown him what Polis City looks like. 

After the meal Aden tries to teach her to flip a piece over with a stream of air, and she almost succeeds. Kind of. Maybe not at all. Clarke insists it wobbles the slightest bit and Aden smiles at her. Clarke knows it means that it didn't wobble at all, but he'll let her have this to encourage her to continue the good work. 

Tris brightens when she realizes that Clarke is left handed too. Zoran stays silently by her side. He's the one who asks her if she'll be back again, and Clarke is quick to say, “I really, really hope so.”

They stay until the horn bellows for the second time, and when Clarke freezes by the sound, Nyko insist that they stay a little while longer. Clarke sees what he's doing, distracting her, and at first she wants to yell at him for manipulating her like that, but when Zoran looks at her with his innocent eyes, it melts Clarke's anger away. 

The foster home is full of life and innocence, which Clarke assumes is why Nyko brought her here. Clarke had a great time, and for a while she even forgot about her demons. 

“Thank you, Nyko,” Clarke says when they've walked for a while. 

His response is a smile and a “they like you”.

Clarke looks over her shoulder at the cabin they can no longer see. Her eyes land upon Aden who walks next to Lincoln, out of earshot, but still in sight. The young boy carries the same kind of stoicism as Lexa, and he scans their surroundings with the same professionalism as Lincoln. Before she looks away, she catches Lincoln smile at him proudly. 

“Lexa mentors him,” Nyko says, answering a question Clarke didn't know she had. 

“Mentors?” 

“He is a nightblood and shows great potential. Heda believes he will be her successor, the next Heda.”

And there it is again: the hollow pit in Clarke's stomach. 

It's a good thing that Lexa acknowledges his potential and mentors him in order to secure a worthy Heda for the future. But Clarke's mind can't ignore the fact that if anyone were to rise as the new Heda, it would mean Lexa was dead… And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she knows that Lexa's death will mean her own death as well. 

The closer they get to the tower, the more Clarke feels the light seep out of her. The darkness envelops her again, and she's torn between thinking she deserves it and wanting to go back to the foster home. 

As they enter the plaza, Lincoln walks up to Clarke, places a hand on her shoulder and says, “I’m here to help you if you need it. Just say the word, okay?”

Clarke knows he means helping her fight the anxiety, just like he did during Roan's audience. She wants to be stubborn and turn down his offer, but he means well, and Clarke doesn't know how she'll react to what she's about to witness, so she nods and thanks him. 

It dawns on her that she’ll watch someone being executed, and for a moment she considers she can't do it, she needs to not be here when it happens. 

In the back of her mind she hears Anya's voice: _Wanheda_. 

If she stays to witness Nia’s execution, maybe it'll convince her that Nia and Ontari are the real monsters, not herself.


	30. XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you.
> 
> I can't believe we're on chapter 30 already! I also can't believe how patient you've all been. There aren't many chapters left, but still a bit of drama to go (I'm not sorry... well, maybe a little bit... nah, no I'm not).
> 
> Before I let you run off to read this chapter, I think I might have to raise a TRIGGER WARNING. It shouldn't come as a surprise to you that Nia's execution is coming up... and while I know some of you will enjoy it, I have to consider that some of you won't (I don't know your age...). So let me just say that the execution scene (the first scene) is quite brutal - at least to some - and if that's not your thing, please read with caution.
> 
> I appreciate you taking the time to read my story. And if you're a commenter and/or a kudo'er, I appreciate that as well. It's been a while since I said that. <3
> 
> So, here it is. Chapter 30.  
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XXX

 

 

The sky stretches over the plaza like a colossal, pale green dome adding a tint of something sickly to the world. Clarke doesn’t remember having experienced this particular sky before, but it seems a suitable companion to the churning in her stomach and the bile at the back of her throat.

The horn sounds a third time.

Clarke is frozen in her spot at the edge of the crowd, first row at her own request. Lincoln is by her side, and Bellamy and Octavia somewhere in close proximity. The urge to turn her back to the scene before her is strong, and she almost did at one point. Lincoln had looked at her, silently begging her to ask for his help, but Clarke had glared at him as she told him to keep his mind-controlling hands away from her. In a sympathetic voice, Lincoln had explained that he cannot control her mind, but simply keep her stress hormones in balance. She had then smoothed out her frown, not yet able to voice an apology, and Lincoln had smiled at her and said, “I won’t do anything unless you ask me to.”

Lincoln’s presence does help, in fact, his calm demeanour is enough to ground her. She may stand like a withered flower in a storm, its petalless crown bending over by a forceful blow, but she stands nonetheless, the stubborn stem just limber enough to never snap.

Knowing that what’s about to happen will appall her, Clarke locks her eyes on Indra as she walks onto the plaza. And behind Indra, two guards follow. They lead Nia to the foot of the marble stairs, and the crowd is a homogeneous mass of angry murmurs that grows in volume by every step they take. 

At the top of the stairs, Lexa stands stoic and tall and observes the audience, and Clarke expects her to silence them any second now. But Lexa allows the crowd to voice their frustration, and when Clarke sees what happens next, she understands why.

The guards strip Nia of her once white, but now filthy cloak and discard it carelessly to the ground, and then they force her to lie down on a gurney next to Ontari’s body. They begin the task of tying her down, and she thrashes against the tightening ropes, her eyes a morbid cross between wrath and terror. 

Clarke feels sick, halfheartedly worrying about the urge to vomit, but she cannot look away.

There’s a piercing silence that screams in Clarke’s mind when Lexa finally lifts her hand. The emeralds she has come to love are nowhere to be found. In their place is a cold fury, a beast unleashed. Lexa’s voice is a roar that speaks to the many beating hearts on the plaza as she introduces the line of ambassadors that have been called upon to witness the ritual – they all have names and faces, but they fade from Clarke’s mind the second Lexa moves on.

There’s a quick announcement about Jossiah where Lexa mentions an ancient law that pardons him. It displeases the crowd, but Lexa assures them that it does not mean that he earns his freedom; on the contrary, he will be kept in the dungeon for the time being.

Lexa speaks of Ontari’s crimes, and then of Nia’s crimes. The list is long, and to Clarke only one entry really stands out: the murder of Costia Kom Azgeda. That one settles in Clarke’s heart like a heavy stone as Lexa fights not to spit out the words. 

There’s a pregnant pause in which the crowd becomes restless. Indra takes a stand in front of the gurneys, and she faces the crowd as she thrusts her hands downwards to ignite two fists of fire. She lifts them towards the sky eliciting a roaring chant from the crowd.

_”Jus drein jus daun. Jus drein jus daun. Jus drein jus daun…”_

Then all hell breaks loose. 

Lexa walks down the marble stairs in a fiery pace, not stopping until she’s at Indra’s side. They exchange a quick word not meant for anyone to hear, and then Indra shakes out her fire, gives Lexa a small nod and takes a step back. 

Clarke feels the deep breath she sees Lexa take, and she feels the walls Lexa tears down in her mind. Lexa is unleashing the beast that lies there, and if Clarke didn’t know better, she’d think it was her own. That unnerving rumble of all-consuming darkness that builds in her heart and is pumped into her veins… Clarke sees it quell the vibrancy of emerald in Lexa’s eyes, and she realizes what it is: the wish to take someone’s life. 

Clarke _remembers_.

It has happened before, when she slammed into Ontari’s body. There was a sudden overwhelming outburst of wrath that made her push against Ontari’s chest. Clarke understands now, what Lexa meant: _It may have been your hands, Clarke, but it was my wish._ And Clarke also understands that Lexa was wrong. It may have been Lexa’s wish, yes, but it was also Clarke’s wish. Ontari was a threat to Lexa, and Lexa is Clarke’s soulbound. There’s nothing Clarke wouldn’t do to keep her safe. It was not a choice, but instinct.

It’s a bittersweet realization: Clarke took someone’s life, but at least her hands weren’t just a tool for Lexa to use, and that alone is a small pebble lifted off Clarke’s chest. 

Clarke’s hands are burning, a superficial heat dancing on her skin as angry red flames lick at Lexa’s clenching fists. 

Lexa lifts her hands to the sky and calls out in a voice carried by controlled anger, “Ontari Kom Azgeda and Nia Kom Azgeda are guilty of treason. They are sentenced to an afterlife of eternal anguish.”

The crowd roars behind Clarke, a violent wave crashing against her frail mind. She’d take a step forward if it wasn’t for the onslaught taking place in front of her, pushing against her to walk backwards. Lexa presses her hands against the chest of Ontari’s body, and it catches fire within seconds. 

Clarke is trembling and she can no longer separate her own emotions from Lexa’s. 

The stench of burning flesh fills the air.

Clarke’s mind has shut down long before Lexa presses her hands against Nia’s trashing body, long before her muffled screams mingle with the chanting of the crowd.

_”Jus drein jus daun. Jus drein jus daun. Jus drein jus daun…”_

Clarke can’t look away. Not when Nia stops thrashing, not when Lexa runs up the marble stairs to pull Roan forward and roars the loudest Clarke has ever heard anyone roar: “The queen is dead! Long live the king!”

There are two columns of wild, red fire, and black smoke rises to the sky along with the brutal choir of voices cheering their Heda on. 

And Clarke’s mind is numb.

The plaza is half empty when Nyko’s calm eyes appear in front of Clarke, his hands cradling her head. Clarke doesn’t catch what he’s saying, but she feels a wave of tranquility wash over her when he presses a hand against her chest while the other cups her neck. Her muscles feel like jelly, strong arms wrap around her torso.

The last thing Clarke sees before her world turns black is an image that isn’t real, but feels very much so: her own thrashing body tied to a gurney, ropes cutting into skin, engulfed by blood red flames that rip her apart like the monster she is. 

 

°*°

 

When Clarke comes to, she finds herself in a dimly lit room. The tiny table next to the bed is familiar, these blankets of unfathomable softness are familiar, and the position of a barely glowing light stone floating in a metal cage in the corner is familiar: Lexa’s bedroom, the hobbit home. 

The table holds a bottle of dream catcher, a bottle of nausea catcher, a cup of water, a slice of bread with cheese, a handful of flameberries, and a bowl of Nyko’s soup. 

Clarke closes her eyes again and presses her face into the pillow. It holds Lexa’s scent, and Clarke is conflicted because she doesn’t want to be comforted, doesn’t feel like she deserves it. But the small flicker of light in her mind’s darkness is weak and needs to be nurtured, so she inhales the scent and allows the soothing effect to wash over her. 

It’s not the first time Clarke comes to. 

The first time, steam rose from the bowl of soup. It had smelled delicious and Clarke’s stomach had growled. She had rolled over into the empty space next to her and covered her face in blankets, and she had fallen back asleep.

The second time, she had woken up in cold sweat, readjusted the blankets, and only for a split second contemplated to use the dream catcher. She decided that whatever nightmare may haunt her, she has it coming, so she allowed exhaustion to carry her body away once more. 

She lost count after that. She lost count of the nightmares, too. 

Despite her best effort, her body is too awake now to be able to find sleep. She shifts onto her back, her eyes seeking purpose in the vastness of space between her and the ceiling. There, she finds nothing; the brutal existence of… nothing, and it echoes in her heart. She releases a broken sigh and shifts to sit against the headboard. 

She eats, drinks, and forces her mind to be rational for a moment. 

Her hands are better. Nyko’s ointment works wonders, the inflammation nearly gone. The skin is still sensitive, but the pain is more of a soreness now, and the blisters are definitely on retreat. It leaves room for Clarke’s darkness to grow; the pain she cannot heal. 

It’s not a conscious decision, but she soon finds herself dressed in clean clothes and exiting the bedroom. She finds Nyko outside by the fire pit, and she finds Lexa sitting in a meditative position – cross-legged, hands resting on knees, eyes closed, and breathing slowly and controlled – on top of the small hill that is her home. 

Clarke takes a seat next to her, and because she doesn’t want to interrupt Lexa, she fixates her eyes on the horizon. The tower stands tall against the mild, orange sky. The tower… Clarke’s eyes fall to her fidgety hands in her lap, the first breath of air makes her chest quiver. 

“Close your eyes,” Lexa says with the softness she always carries around Clarke.

But Clarke doesn’t close her eyes. Instead, she looks at Lexa and is momentarily confused by the split between this tender creature that fills Clarke’s chest with warmth, and the one that killed Nia with fury burning in her eyes. 

There’s a delicacy to this moment, the way Lexa slowly turns her head and opens her eyes to meet Clarke’s gaze. A delicacy of the kind that could easily wash away if the wrong thing was said, or done. And maybe Clarke doesn’t need that. Maybe Clarke needs the rawness of truth and pain. Maybe Clarke needs to be selfish.

“What happens now?” Clarke asks.

“We move on.”

“How?”

“We find solace in our purpose.”

Clarke huffs a dry laugh, then shakes her head as she fixates her eyes on the tower again. “If you take a life you must pay with your life,” she says to no one. 

Lexa holds her breath ignoring the pang in her chest as she awaits Clarke’s next words. She knows them before they’re spoken. 

“Why am I not being punished?”

“You did not kill to take a life. You did so to save a life. And by saving mine, you saved your own, and I have no doubt you saved my people as well.” 

“From Ontari?” Clarke asks, incredulous of the notion that one person can cause harm to the entity that is Lexa’s people. Surely, she must be outnumbered.

“Ontari was a dangerous weapon in Nia’s hands. I feared the day Nia would finally learn to use it correctly. She has been seeking out my weaknesses for a very long time. Costia, my people… You.”

It’s a lot to take in. What Lexa says makes sense, but there’s a part of Clarke’s mind that refuses to accept it. It’s like Lexa delivers the missing pieces to a puzzle, but no matter how Clarke fits them together, the puzzle cannot be solved. 

Something is missing, and Clarke wonders if maybe she won’t be able to find that something in Lexa, or Lexa’s world. She wonders if she’ll ever find it, or if it’s lost for good. She wonders if this is the difference between them. Lexa is Heda, and Clarke is from Skai Houd. Maybe that’s exactly the truth Clarke has been searching for. Her father may have been from this world, but that doesn’t mean she belongs here. Maybe this is Clarke’s lesson: Clarke belongs to Polis City. But she’s not ready to go home. She can’t. Lexa is not forcing her to stay, but Clarke’s heart is breaking just thinking about leaving her. She just… can’t. Not yet.

So now what? 

How is Clarke supposed to find solace in her purpose when she doesn’t know what her purpose is? 

“Lexa?”

“Yes?”

“That thing I overheard you and Anya talk about… Wanheda? Will you tell me about it?”

Lexa considers this. She’s not sure Clarke is ready for it. Not yet. But Clarke is asking, and Clarke wouldn’t ask unless she really wanted to know. So yes, Lexa will of course grant her this wish. “I can do better. I will show you.”

“Show me?” Clarke asks, her eyebrow twitching as she ponders the idea.

But Lexa only smiles in return, it’s small, but a smile nonetheless.

 

°*°

 

They go to see Titus at The Sacred Library.

Lexa guides Clarke along those barely trodden paths that leads them towards the tower, and Clarke inwardly smiles realizing she anticipates every turn of direction before Lexa takes it. Clarke wonders if she would be able to find her way back alone, not because she wants to, but because it would make her less dependent if she could. 

It’s a short trek, but not a silent one. 

“Where’s Anya?” Clarke asks, wondering about the lack of guards.

“She is off duty.”

“Oh.” 

Lexa smiles at Clarke’s puzzled expression. “I am off duty too,” she says.

It’s only just now that Clarke realizes that Lexa isn’t wearing Heda’s color on her shoulder, in fact, she isn’t even wearing her black coat. Her pants are black, but the long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing is an off-white with a tint of olive green. It’s private Lexa, and Clarke is excited to have her by her side, but also confused. 

“Is it safe?”

“Yes,” Lexa says, as if it’s the easiest question to answer.

Clarke stops as the thoughts take over. One day they’re surrounded by guards, and the next Lexa doesn’t even care about her black coat. It’s so out of the ordinary of what Clarke is used to. “But… How?” Is all Clarke manages to say.

Lexa stops, too. She turns to face Clarke and considers her words for a moment, then she says. “While you were… sleeping, I have learned that Nia had also hired the assassin that shot me in Polis City. It means there are no longer any impending threats on my life. Not one I know of, at least.”

They look at each other, Clarke considering whether or not she believes Lexa, and Lexa wishing she knew what Clarke was thinking. 

“No threats?” Clarke says, barely a question camouflaged by disbelief.

“No threats,” Lexa assures her. She walks up to Clarke, and without batting an eye, she brushes a tender hand up Clarke’s arm, along her shoulder until it reaches the nape of her neck. Her thumb caresses the soft skin behind Clarke’s ear as she says, “I spoke to Indra, and she agrees with me that it is time to return to normal routines. Not for me, but for my people. Me being off duty – _visibly_ off duty – will signal that they do not need to worry anymore. And you do not need to worry either.”

“Okay,” Clarke exhales, her eyes fluttering shut as Lexa presses gentle lips to her forehead.

The moment lingers until Lexa pulls back. She levels Clarke with careful eyes as she once more considers what to say. “Your soul will mend at its own pace. I do not expect you to let go of the past, Clarke, but I assure you that you are the only one on these lands that consider Ontari’s fate an act of crime. Were they to know the truth of… Wanheda, they would worship you. Some would fear you, yes, but out of ignorance. To most, it is a gift, a great honor given to you by the elements… I want you to remember that when Titus shows you.”

This constant state of confusion Clarke always finds herself in when Lexa speaks of legends and customs of her world seems to have taken residence in her body. Clarke doesn’t even care to ask Lexa to elaborate. She knows the answer will be something akin to _’you’ll see’_. So Clarke swallows her questions and presses closer to Lexa, and then she allows herself to lean up to kiss her. It’s brief, but based by the smile on Lexa’s lips it seems to hold special powers.

That’s another thing Clarke is avoiding: the talk about what’s happening between them, what it means, and what they want it to mean. 

As Lexa says, “come on,” and pulls Clarke along with her, Clarke swallows those questions, too. For now, Clarke has her hands full trying to accept the things she cannot change. And purpose. She needs to find purpose. Lexa’s affection is the one constant that hasn’t changed, and Clarke doesn’t know how to say no to the one thing that keeps her grounded. 

So for now, Clarke is selfish.

 

°*°

 

The sound of Clarke and Lexa’s footsteps travels down the aisle of The Sacred Library towards Titus who stands by the high table at the far end. It almost resembles a pulpit, Clarke thinks, and it’s not too far from the truth, as this is the spot in which Titus religiously works on his translations. As the two approach Titus, he closes the book laid out in front of him and then turns to greet his guests.

“Heda.” He dips his head and doesn’t lift it until he hears his leader’s voice.

“Titus. I come to ask a favor of you. But first I must explain something to you, and you must swear to keep it between us.”

“I swear, Heda.” Titus looks from Lexa to Clarke, and if he wonders what the skai girl with the other half of Praimfaya is doing under his roof once again, at least it is not in spite this time. 

“Ontari’s soul was pulled from her body, not with a weapon, but with energy,” Lexa says, and she watches Titus consider her words.

“Heda, do you mean to say that…” Titus falters. His hands are linked in front of him, and he presses his thumbs nervously together as his frown deepens.

“Will you show us the book of Wanheda?” Lexa asks.

“Wanheda?” Titus’ voice is an awestruck gasp, and his eyes flick between Clarke and Lexa obviously now realizing what Lexa is saying. “I suspected this,” he says, a curious crease between his eyes as he moves towards the nearest bookshelf. His hands know just what they’re looking for, and he soon holds a book in his hands, five inches thick and bound in old, dark brown leather. 

It takes effort for Lexa to hold her tongue as to not insist that he explains himself before he returns. But when he does, his eyes roaming the cover of the book like someone might look at an old family photo, impatience awakens Heda from her slumber.

“Titus,” Lexa says, the tone of her voice also saying _’explain yourself. Now!’_

“The joined mark of Praimfaya holds great potential. That we know, Heda.” Titus looks at her with gleaming eyes, his words are excited and gently rushed. “And I suspected there was a connection between the mark hidden in Skai Houd and Wanheda. I have not found proof of this, but you see that the elements chose a healer for Praimfaya, and who is better to hold the responsibility of Wanheda than a great healer?”

Lexa considers this. She is not one to rush to any conclusion based on suspicion, but she agrees with Titus. His theory is possible, but even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t matter. Lexa is not here to discuss connections between the legends. She is here to help Clarke. It’s a fact that Clarke took the soul from Ontari’s body, and the book of Wanheda speaks of this phenomenon. Lexa hopes it will help Clarke to understand the potential of her energy better and hopefully bring her peace of mind.

“I see your point, Titus, and I do not disagree. But let us save that discussion for another time. Will you show us?” Lexa motions with a pointed look at the book in his hands.

“Sha, Heda.” He replaces the book on the high table with the book of Wanheda. He stares at it, deep in thought, and then he taps the cover with two fingers as he says, “what do you see, Heda?”

“I see nothing, Titus, it is not news to you.”

Titus nods as if expecting her to say that. “Clarke, if I may ask you the same, what do you see?”

Clarke looks at the book, wide-eyed and her breath stuck in her throat. “A spiral?” 

“You see it?” Lexa asks, eyes fleeting between Clarke and Titus and the book.

“I… Yes.” Clarke frowns, wondering if that wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Clarke,” Titus says, his lips twisted into a hint of a smile, “and if I may, what color is it?”

“Light,” Clarke says, and she looks from the book to the palm of her left hand. “Like the mark.”

There’s a moment in which Clarke’s heartbeat is the only thing that exists. It pounds against her ribcage, the rhythm echoing in her ears. She’s drawn to the spiral on the book, and she reaches out to touch it but stops herself as she worries she might not be allowed to.

A familiar hand rests against the small of Clarke’s back as Lexa takes a stand next to her. “Go ahead,” Lexa murmurs.

Clarke takes a deep breath and presses her palm that holds the mark of Praimfaya against the spiral on the book cover. It’s cold and smooth against her skin, but nothing out of the ordinary happens, no glowing, no tingling, and Clarke feels disappointment wash over her. 

“Titus,” Lexa says, a soft command.

“Sha, Heda.” 

Titus lays his hand on top of Clarke’s, and then it happens. The spiral glows, bright and colorless, on the cover under Clarke’s hand, and Lexa sees it now, too. The book trembles gently, and Clarke’s eyes grow wide.

“Do not worry, Clarke, it is supposed to happen,” Lexa says. “Close your eyes.”

And so Clarke does.

“I will begin,” Titus says.

It takes no more than a fragment of a moment before a soft tremor flows through Clarke’s veins. Her eyelashes flutter like the wings of a butterfly, but they never open. And when Titus calls her name, she doesn’t respond.

Clarke is under a trance.

Under Titus’ command, a story flows from the book and directly into Clarke’s mind. It’s pictureless, but paints a vivid truth. It speaks to Clarke, feeds her soul, and what cannot be seen can at least be grasped by her mind. It holds questions Clarke didn’t know she had, but more importantly, it delivers the answers as well.

It’s the Legend of Wanheda.

When Titus showed it to Lexa a long time ago, this is what it told her: without evil there is no good, and without good there is no evil. Thus, without death there is no life, and without life there is no death. It leaves very little for interpretation, but Titus and Lexa have discussed the purpose of Wanheda and the extend of Wanheda’s potential many times, and they agree on one very important thing: they simply don’t know enough about the legend to be sure of anything. What they do know is, that the book speaks of the Keeper of Death, and they suspect this also means the Keeper of Life. The elements have always taught them that a balance must be obtained, and that this balance is of utmost importance to kru culture. 

But the purpose of Wanheda has always been a mystery because it’s hard to explain the benefits of taking someone’s life; if it’s not to punish someone, then what is it good for? And Lexa knows, that this is all it comes down to in Clarke’s mind. And she knows, that it will tear Clarke apart if that question is left unanswered. Hopefully, in the name of Wanheda, will it provide Clarke with the truth she needs to move on.

Titus removes his hand, and a gasp falls from Clarke’s lips. It echoes under the arched ceiling as Clarke’s eyes spring open. They hold clarity and heartbreak all at once, and all Lexa is able to do is stand there, out of proper words to speak as the despair that so obviously lives in Clarke’s body fastens itself to Lexa.

“Mochof.” Titus says, his voice on the verge of breaking.

Lexa looks at him, his unshed tears carving a hollow pit in her stomach. His face is twisted into sorrow and gratefulness, and it disturbs Lexa in a way she cannot explain. She looks at Clarke again, watches her take a deep breath.

“I understand.” Clarke’s voice is hoarse, tired from emotion. “I understand now. The gift, the curse… The responsibility.” 

And if Lexa wasn’t lost before, she certainly is now as Clarke breaks in front of her. She just barely manages to catch Clarke’s body, before it crumbles to the ground.

“I don’t want it, Lexa,” Clarke whispers through a sobbing breath as she clings to her. “I don’t want it.”


	31. XXXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1 - you are the best! <3  
> 2 - I love this universe so much, I don't want to end this story :(
> 
> I have plans about a sequel, but I'll tell you more about it later. As for now, here's chapter 31.
> 
> Enjoy! <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XXXI

 

 

It has been four sunrauns since they went to see Titus. And for four sunrauns, Clarke has been yanked from her shallow sleep by violent images of burning bodies – sometimes it’s Nia’s body, sometimes it’s her own. And for all of those four sunrauns, Lexa has been ready to catch Clarke and hold her until her breathing slows down and the tears run out.

For four sunrauns Lexa has made sure that there’s a dream catcher on the bedside table next to Clarke.

For four sunrauns Clarke has refused to drink it.

And for every sunraun that has completed its circle, Lexa's soul has been aching a bit more. Because Clarke doesn't get better, and Lexa doesn't know what to do. The need to fix Clarke runs in her veins like a primal instinct, but she knows that Clarke won’t be fixed unless Clarke wants to be fixed, and Clarke is struggling with that part. What’s worse is that Lexa understands why she’s fighting it. It’s not that Clarke lacks the will to get better; it’s that Clarke clings to the person she was before all this happened. To get better, she needs to accept that she’s not that person anymore.

For four sunrauns Lexa has gone about her day like she usually would. She has gone to the tower to debrief with Indra, and then she has taken her stroll on the plaza talking to her people with Anya watching over her from the distance. She has held political meetings with the ambassadors and Roan to build a new foundation between the united kru and Ice Nation.

For four sunrauns Lexa has made sure to come back home regularly to check on Clarke and make sure she eats. They have gone to the river to bathe because Clarke doesn’t want to go near the tower. They have sat on Lexa’s hill in silence watching the horizon and listening to shadow singers. Beyond that, Clarke insists on staying at Lexa’s home, and Lexa doesn’t have it in her to take that from her.

Clarke hasn’t shut Lexa out, and for that Lexa is grateful. They lay in a soft embrace and talk in low murmurs before they go to sleep. The topics are light and easy, and the smile that tugs on Clarke’s lips make Lexa’s heart soar, even though it’s not as bright as it usually is. 

It may be a fragmented version of Clarke that lies in Lexa’s arms, but even in this state, Clarke is the most beautiful thing Lexa has ever know. To be allowed to caress Clarke into a slumber with fingertips and gentle kisses is a privilege, one she will never take for granted. 

It’s on the fourth sunraun, when Clarke wakes up screaming and shaking, that Lexa decides she needs to at least try to help Clarke move on. Lexa will send for Nyko the next time she’s at the tower. He has bonded with Clarke on a healer to patient level, and a master to apprentice level as well, so maybe he knows how to help her. 

 

°*°

 

“Hello, Clarke. How are you?” Nyko sits on an upturned tree trunk by Lexa's firepit stirring in a cauldron. He balances the wooden spoon on the edge and turns his full attention to Clarke. 

Clarke twitches her lip and takes a seat next to him. She shrugs, her eyes glued to the spoon. “I'm okay.”

“Better?”

A pause. “No.”

“I am going to visit Zoran again. Will you join me?”

“The foster home?” Clarke asks, meeting Nyko’s eyes for the first time, and when he nods, Clarke says, “okay.”

His smile is affable as he quietly pours a bowl of soup to each of them. It smells of herbs and of something savory, and Clarke’s mouth waters even before Nyko hands her a spoon. They eat, slow and relaxed. Clarke dwells in the way the soup is warm in her throat and fills her belly satisfyingly, and Nyko observes her with a careful concern. 

When Clarke places her empty bowl on the ground by her feet, Nyko says, “Tris has been asking for you.”

“Really?” 

“Yes.”

Clarke smiles timidly, and Nyko decides it’s time to leave.

 

°*°

 

As soon as Clarke lays eyes on the foster home, a smile tugs on her lips. The magnificent cabin stands proudly under the sun as it reflects the warmth with its polished red wood. It penetrates Clarke’s heart, and she hears her own bubbly laughter as the boy she remembers as Zoran almost trips over his feet as he runs to them. 

“Nyko!” Zoran crashes into Nyko and wraps his arms around his legs. 

“Zoran,” Nyko says softly. He runs a hand over the boy’s head, and he bends down to press a kiss to his hair with an affection not unlike a father’s. “How are you today?”

“I am well, Nyko. We made pastries,” Zoran says excitedly. “Do you want one?”

“I would love to, Zoran.”

The boy starts pulling at Nyko’s hand, and the large man with the gentle laughter has to take longer steps to keep up with him. Clarke stands in her spot for a moment observing the two. She wonders if Nyko has children, and a wife. He would be a great husband and a great father, Clarke decides, but she wonders if his attachment to this place – it is clearly important to him – is based on a solitary lifestyle. A small voice in the back of her mind tells her that Nyko cares for these children as if they were his own, and the clenching around her heart, this instinctual sensing Clarke cannot describe with words, tells her that if she’s right, then Nyko is childless because of tragedy, not by choice. The children at the foster home are lucky to have someone like Nyko to look out for them, and Clarke thinks that Nyko is lucky to have a place like the foster home take care of. Clarke’s heart yearns to have a purpose like this; she misses the hospital and her patients, and she wonders if Nyko will let her help out at the healer quarters at some point.

As they walk towards the long table that’s situated in front of the cabin, Clarke hears Nyko ask Zoran about the pastries he made. She looks past them and locks eyes with Tris whose expression brightens immediately. It pulls at Clarke’s feet, and as she moves towards the table to take a seat between Tris and Aden, Clarke forgets about the darkness in her mind.

 

°*°

 

Visiting the foster home becomes a routine for Clarke. She quickly gets to know the paths that lead from Lexa's home to the cabin, and she soon finds herself going there without Nyko. The first time Clarke steps alone into the clearing in the trees with the lush grass and the white flowers, her heart is beating wildly in her chest. She worries only for a moment that she isn’t welcome without Nyko, but then Aden waves at her.

“Clarke! Come on, you can be on my team!”

As Clarke approaches the small table he has set up, she realizes he’s about to play a game of knocking over little pieces with Tris. 

“Are you sure? I still don’t know how to do it…” Clarke says, drawing out the words with uncertainty.

“I will teach you,” Aden says, and there’s a piece of Lexa in his eyes that makes Clarke believe that no matter how hard it’s going to be, they’ll figure it out together.

“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“It takes as long as it takes,” Aden says, and Clarke wonders if that’s something Lexa has told him many times; the tone in his voice certainly indicates it.

Clarke smiles at him and takes a seat on the wobbly stool next to him. The table is a small wooden table, a sturdy piece of crafted woodwork which grace is to be found in the nostalgia of age. Names are scratched into its surface, and Clarke's eyes land on Zoran’s name. She quickly deduces that there are a lot more names than children currently living at the foster home; it must be a tradition or sorts. 

“Come on, Zoran. You can be on my team,” Tris says to the newly arrived boy and pats the stool next to her.

Zoran shakes his head and takes a step back

“I need my lucky charm, Zoran, come on.” 

Tris holds out a hand and patiently waits for Zoran to consider. He eventually grabs her hand – with his left hand, his good hand – and allows her to pull him onto the stool. 

“Want to know a secret, Zoran?” Tris grins and nudges him playfully, shoulder to shoulder. 

Zoran looks up at her, silently curious as he nods, and Tris leans in and cups her hand to his ear. She whispers, but loud enough for Clarke and Aden to hear. “Clarke has not tipped one over yet. Aaaand she is a grown up.”

Zoran’s wide eyes find Clarke, and she only now realizes that Zoran doesn't want to play because he has low self esteem, most likely because he isn’t good at it. 

Clarke smiles at him and shrugs. “She's right,” she says, and Zoran looks from Clarke to Tris who winks at him. 

“I only can sometimes,” Zoran says in a sad voice, and Clarke wants nothing but to hug him and protect him from the world. 

“But you make the best pastries of all of us,” Aden says, and Zoran blushes.

“I'm a terrible cook… Aaaand I'm a grown up,” Clarke says, copying Tris’ playfulness. They share a conspiratory smile.

“Do you know your purpose yet?” Zoran asks.

_No._

Purpose. The word sends a wave of unrest through Clarke's body. Ever since Lexa started talking about finding solace in her purpose, Clarke has wanted nothing more than to find this holy grail. It's tantamount to the missing piece that keeps bleeding darkness inside Clarke's mind, she's sure of it, yet, she often finds herself wanting to run in the exact opposite direction. 

In Clarke's mind a connection has formed between the word purpose and the legend of Wanheda. The truth of it is what makes her heart pump blood into her veins, and Clarke knows her soul has already accepted its fate. 

The legend of Wanheda chose Clarke. Clarke is Wanheda. 

As Clarke saw the spiral on the cover of Titus’ book everything made sense. But Clarke's mind hasn't accepted it yet. There's a part of her that still belongs to Polis City, and that part is a doctor and shares a small apartment with Raven, her best friend. Deep down Clarke knows she can't be both, and she knows at some point she'll have to choose between the two: Clarke from Polis City, or Wanheda. What worries Clarke the most is that she’s not sure she gets to make that decision herself.

Zoran looks at Clarke, his innocent eyes growing wide as he waits for Clarke to answer his question.

Clarke wants to say that no, she hasn't found her purpose yet, but she knows it's not the truth, so she gives him half the truth. 

“I think my purpose is healing,” Clarke says as she pushes the other half far back into the deepest corner of her mind. The other half is the exact opposite of a healer; the other half is a killer, and she wants nothing to do with it.

“Like Nyko?” Zoran asks and his eyes brighten. 

“Like Nyko,” Clarke says hoping her smile comes off just genuine enough to not show the broken half of her. 

The truth is that Clarke is more than just half broken. She has no idea how many sunrauns it has been since Nia’s execution, and usually it makes her anxious knowing that time passes while she is stuck. But in the company of these young minds, time passes without Clarke noticing. They will play Aden’s game, and he will teach Clarke to control her energy while Tris teaches Zoran to believe in himself, and they may not succeed today, but it doesn’t matter because there’s always tomorrow.

 

°*°

 

When Clarke returns – alone, for the first time – she is smiling as she steps inside, and she realizes it doesn’t happen too often. She wants to share it with Lexa. She wants Lexa to ask her how her day has been, and she wants to tell Lexa that she went to the foster home all by herself – without getting lost, might she add – and that Aden nearly exploded with pride when Clarke sent off waves of energy, the right kind of waves, those that will become a stream of air once she gets the hang of it. 

It has been an eventful day, and Clarke decides to take a nap as she waits for Lexa to come home. But today is different. Lexa has spent a lot of time at the tower the past couple of sunrauns fulfilling her duty as Heda, so it comes as quite the surprise to Clarke when she finds Lexa sprawled carelessly across the bed, still dressed – still in Heda’s coat, even – obviously passed out from exhaustion. 

Clarke smiles as she considers what Heda’s people would say if they knew that their ruthless leader drools in her sleep. 

Clarke takes a seat on the bed and runs a gentle hand up Lexa's arm. She leans down and presses a kiss to her temple. The mighty Heda sighs and mumbles something incoherent that has Clarke chuckling. 

“Let's get this off of you,” Clarke murmurs as she begins the task of ridding Lexa of her coat. It's not easy. Lexa's arms are heavy limbs that only move when Clarke lifts them, and all Lexa does to help is mumble more non-words and grunt when Clarke rolls her onto her stomach.

Once free from Heda's coat, Clarke lies down next to her, arm and leg slung over Lexa's sleeping body. Clarke kisses her once more, on the shoulder, and then buries her face in Lexa's hair. 

Sleep is welcome. 

Sleep is not a curse this time. 

Clarke melts into a dreamless state, and for the first time since they returned from Ice Nation, Clarke wakes up feeling safe. 

Soft eyes are observing her. 

Fingertips are combing through her hair. 

“Hey,” Clarke croaks. She clears her throat from sleep and wets the inside of her mouth with a tongue. 

“Hello,” Lexa murmurs. 

Lexa wraps her fingers around Clarke's hand and lifts it to her mouth to place a kiss in her palm. She studies it carefully and says, “it is all gone.”

Clarke nods and curls her lips in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She watches Lexa press another kiss into her palm, and she can't for the life of her understand how such a barely there touch is able to send her emotions into a rampage. They build and grow and threaten to spill over the edge, and Clarke thinks they might, because her chest feels not big enough, and her throat is in a knot. If ever she knew what to say, the words wouldn't be able to come out. 

“I am sorry I fell asleep. I meant to wait for you,” Lexa says, her breath warm and moist against Clarke's palm.

“It's okay,” Clarke says, her voice shredded by the violence of emotions clawing their way up her throat. “You were exhausted.”

Lexa nods, her eyes fluttering shut as she places Clarke's hand back onto the bed. “The last of Nia's guards were delivered. I needed to recharge after…” Lexa trails off, not meaning to tell Clarke about it, but Clarke doesn't need any more words to know what took place at the foot of the tower. 

“You killed them all,” Clarke says, a statement, but also a question with a slight edge of accusation. 

Lexa looks at Clarke, allows her to see the shine of mourning that waters her eyes as she says, “they were given a choice, and five of them chose to follow Nia.”

The way Lexa clenches her jaw to hold back emotions settles around Clarke's heart, and she cups Lexa's face with a strong hand, using a soulbound’s touch to calm her down. 

Clarke nods to express her understanding. It's part of being Heda, it needs to be done. With the truth of Wanheda now surging through her veins, Clarke _understands_ ; and she hates that she does.

“I don't know what to do,” Clarke says in a brittle voice. 

Lexa lifts her eyebrows as if to encourage Clarke to continue to explain. 

Clarke draws a shaky breath, then releases it and says, “I feel stuck.”

“Maybe you are supposed to be,” Lexa says. 

Clarke throws her a frustrated glare. She wants answers, not the cryptic advice that is Lexa's pocket philosophy. “Meaning?” Clarke says, more condescending than she meant to, but Lexa seems unfazed by it. 

“You expect to fix something that cannot be fixed. You cannot return what was given to you, but you also do not want to accept it. And as long as that is how you feel, your place is in the middle. You are stuck and that is your place until you are ready to not be stuck.”

Clarke sighs, a little weak huff of air. “That doesn't make sense, Lexa.”

“Yes, it does. But you refuse to open your eyes to the truth because you do not want to be stuck.”

Clarke buries her face in the pillow and sighs once more. She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. Then she lifts her head to meet Lexa's ever patient gaze. “Okay, I'll play along. I'm stuck because I don't want Wanheda’s burden, and what you're saying is that it's supposed to be like this.”

“I am saying it is okay to be stuck, Clarke. No one expects you to have the answers. We live our entire life seeking out answers to our questions. And you have to remember, that there is no time limit. No one is rushing you.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, a frown pulls at her face. “So, what now? I _stay_ stuck on purpose? I don't… How–” Clarke interrupts herself by dropping her face back onto the pillow, a groan escaping her lips. 

There's a little smile in the corner of Lexa's mouth that refuses to die. Clarke is different now, more open to rationalize what goes on in her mind, and Clarke may not see it, not yet, but Lexa does. Clarke is not really stuck; she's moving on – at a slow pace, yes, but moving nonetheless. Lexa wonders what has caused this change. She wants Clarke to hang onto it. 

“Clarke?” Lexa runs a hand down Clarke's back.

“Yeah?” Clarke mumbles into the pillow and then twists her head to look at Lexa. 

“How was your day?”

“It was good,” Clarke says, finding a sudden urge to keep the hours with Aden, Tris, and Zoran to herself; a treasure; a well-kept secret. “It was really good.”

“Were you stuck while it was good?” 

Clarke contemplates it for a moment, but knows her answer immediately. Damn Lexa and her pocket philosophy. “No.” 

The kiss Lexa presses to Clarke's forehead is soft and warm, and Clarke forgets her frustration. They find each other in an embrace that pulls them closer, lips mingling and legs entangling. And Clarke has a fleeting thought that they should really talk about this thing between them, but she loses hold of it as fast as it came because her hands find the naked skin under Lexa's shirt, and the way Lexa's teeth pull at her lips is enough to short circuit her mind.

 

°*°

 

The soft glow from a light stone envelops their naked bodies, and Lexa finds that a sleeping Clarke is a beautiful creature that she cannot take her eyes off. This sleep is different from all of those prior. Clarke doesn't frown in her sleep, not this time, and Lexa has to resist the urge to brush fingertips along her face. Lexa has lain there listening to Clarke's soft breathing and watched her eyelashes flutter in her sleep, and it's been long enough for her muscles to grow restless. 

Carefully, Lexa untangles from arms and blankets and slides out of bed. She grabs a set of clothes and tiptoes out the bedroom. She gets dressed and collects her hair in a quick braid. She uses the restroom quickly, and grabs a cup of water and a slice of bread with cheese on her way out. She's not going anywhere – she wants to be here when Clarke wakes up – but while she waits, she settles in her favorite spot on top of her hill to enjoy her meal. 

Once done, she wipes crumbs from her lips and drinks her water. The air is fresh in her nostrils, and she rests her hands on her knees, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath that straightens her spine and fills her lungs with peace. Soon, it infiltrates her mind as well. 

It's not quite a trance, it's not meant to be. But Lexa can't help but wonder that the outcome is the same. Images of Clarke's ocean blue eyes are forming behind her eyelids, and she easily defines the unrest in her heart: it won't be long till Clarke has to make a choice. Until she does, Lexa has her own inbetween to be stuck in, no matter how much she tries to ignore it. 

The truth is, Lexa wants Clarke. She wants to fall asleep next to her, and she wants to wake up next to her, and she wants there to be no time limit. She is already addicted to the way her mind calms down when their soulbound halves are fully connected through physical touch. But Lexa doesn't own Clarke – not like Clarke already owns Lexa – and a part of her worries she never will. They will have to talk about it. Soon. But Clarke is showing actual progress for the first time since Ontari's death, and Lexa can't find it within herself to take that from Clarke. Not yet. 

Lexa focuses on her breathing – fills her lungs, holds her breath, and exhales slowly – and with every breath she takes, she picks a worrying thought, registers its existence and then stores it away. She fills the void with a happy thought instead: Clarke's nightmares in exchange for Clarke's bright smiles; the diplomatic chaos that seems to follow Azgeda in exchange for a new cooperative King Roan; the almost certain outcome that Clarke will return back to Polis City in exchange for a sliver of hope that she chooses to stay with Lexa instead. 

Lexa feels the presence of someone sitting down next to her, and judged by the soundless approach, it's definitely not Clarke – she is, after all, still stealthless in her movements. 

“Anya,” Lexa greets, eyes still closed. 

“Lexa,” Anya says, and Lexa hears the proud smile in Anya's voice. 

Lexa takes another deep breath before opening her eyes. She looks at Anya, sees purpose in her eyes, and waits for her to speak.  
“People are beginning to talk,” Anya says and pauses as she allows a sadness onto her face. 

“About what?” Lexa asks, but she already knows, and truthfully, she was expecting it to happen, just not yet. She thought they had more time. 

“The skai girl that stays with Heda but does not live here,” Anya says. 

Lexa knew, and still, Anya's words feel like a blow to her gut. She hangs her head with distress and sighs. 

“Have you told her?” Anya asks. 

“No. I… She is not ready to…” Lexa trails off suddenly struck by a pang of guilt. She's not sure if that's true, but what _is_ true is that Lexa isn't ready. She never will be, and it isn't fair to Clarke to project that onto her. 

“Lexa,” Anya sighs, a heartbroken reprimand. 

Lexa nods, not able to verbalize that she knows Anya is right. 

“You love her,” Anya says. 

Even in her still form, Lexa stiffens. She nods and says, “I do.”

“Like Costia?”

Lexa shakes her head, soft and weak. “Deeper,” she says and looks at Anya with broken eyes.

“Lexa…” Anya softens, resists the urge to pull the woman she once gave a home into a hug. “You think she will choose Polis City?” 

“I do not know.”

“I have to choose?” 

Lexa snaps her head towards Clarke's voice, and she stares wide-eyed at her soulbound who’s standing at the foot of the hill looking up at Lexa with betrayal in her eyes.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, but it's followed by a deafening silence. 

“I have to choose?” Clarke repeats through gritted teeth. 

“...yes.”

“When?”

“Clarke, I–”

“– _When_ , Lexa?”

“Soon.” 

Clarke shakes her head as she takes a step back, away from Lexa. Her entire body is trembling, and Lexa jumps to her feet with the intention of getting to Clarke before she runs away, but Anya grabs a hold of her ankle and says, “let her go.”  
And Lexa knows she's right. 

She feels the grieve in her heart, and she knows it's not just her own. She watches Clarke walk backwards, tears streaming down her face, and she feels Anya's hand tighten around her ankle when Clarke turns around and disappears around the big tree. 

“Give her time, Lexa. This is what she does. She gets overwhelmed and she runs off to clear her mind. She will come back.”

But Lexa stares at the spot where Clarke disappeared, her vision is blurry and her lungs ache from not breathing. She feels her heart beating under her rib cage, every thud is a cry of agony, and she wonders if her heart will beat like that for the rest of her life. She wonders how long that will be.


	32. XXXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> I'm a little sad that we're on the second to last chapter now. As it is with all my stories, I don't want it to end.  
> Alas, I must.
> 
> Before I send you off to read this chapter, I need to say a few things:
> 
> 1 - Remember the summary:  
>  _'Clarke, however, is relentless and it comes with a price…'_  
>  You've all learned now what that price is - she has to choose. 
> 
> 2 - Some of you expressed a worry towards the drama ahead and only 2 chapters to 'fix it'. Let me say this: The last chapter is 3 times the length of this one, so in word count, there are 3 more chapters after this, only I put them together as one ;)
> 
> Until next Sunday, enjoy this <3  
> ~anonbeme

# XXXII

 

 

There are three places Clarke knows how to find on her own: Lexa's home, the tower, and the foster home. In none of those places does she get to be alone. She considers locking herself up in her suite at the tower, but Lexa knows where to find her there, and Clarke just wants to disappear; just for a while. 

She has to choose? 

She has to _choose!_

Just like her father, she has to choose between Heda's world and Polis City, and she feels foolish for being blind to it all this time. _Of course_ , she has to choose. She knew she had to make a decision about Lexa, about what they are to each other, but… 

Four stone obelisks stand before her, but Clarke doesn't remember climbing the hill. The tower stands tall next to the hill, and Clarke hears the buzzing of voices from the plaza behind it. 

If she stepped into the portal field to never return… 

It would be easy, stepping into the portal field and have it carry her back home, but she can't. Two steps, but for some reason, she can't.

Clarke closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She feels a burning pain in her chest and knows it's not just her own. She yearns to soothe it, knows it's easily taken care of by going back to Lexa. 

But she can't. 

“Clarke?”

Clarke looks at Lincoln who stands by the foot of the hill with worry written on his face.

“Clarke, are you okay?” Lincoln begins to walk up the hillside, and Clarke meets him halfway. 

“Clarke?” He asks again, and Clarke can't do anything but shake her head, a frantic pace only meant to hold her tears from flooding. 

Lincoln lifts his hands to hover above her shoulders. “Can I?” 

Clarke nods, allows him to touch her. She feels it instantly, the way he washes away the panic and leaves a calm in its wake. 

“What happened, Clarke?”

“I…” Clarke drops her head, weighed down by her heavy heart. “Will you take me to the butterfly field?”

“Of course.” Lincoln gives her shoulder a squeeze, and quietly guides her down the hill, away from the tower, and towards the place Clarke hopes will hold the answer she needs. 

As fireflies begin to dance around them, Clarke picks up speed. Two steps behind her, Lincoln is wearing a melancholic smile. He's still clueless to the battle in Clarke's mind – the matter, not its presence – but he knows it's bad, and his intuition tells him it most definitely has to do with Heda, and so his heart is breaking, not just for Clarke, but for his leader, too. He slows down, stops to linger by the edge of the clearing to give Clarke privacy as she enters the butterfly field. He finds an overturned tree trunk, takes a seat, and gets comfortable as he rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

Meanwhile, Clarke shuffles through the grass on frail feet and with a heart that grows heavier still. Her arms are extended, spread like lazy wings, fingertips very close to, but never touching glowing butterflies. She breaks to a halt in the spot her mind tells her is exactly where Lexa kissed her; the spot where their souls bonded. It draws shaky air from her lungs, and her knees wobble enough to force her into a sitting position. There, she watches through a blurred vision as glowing bugs dance around her and fills her heart with emotions not even her body seems big enough to contain.

Clarke holds out her hands, attracts the butterflies with gentle vibrations.

There are no answers.

There are no fucking answers.

Just the same, Clarke isn’t even sure of her questions.

The only truth she’s sure of is that her heart is shattered to pieces, and if it wasn’t for the vessel that is her skin, those pieces would’ve travelled with the wind to any and every corner of the world to never be found and put back together again.

Butterflies twirl happily in the sunlight, and Clarke closes her eyes with a heavy sigh. 

This place messes with her mind. It reminds her too much of Lexa. She thought it would help her think, but all it does is make everything worse – more… complicated. The strongest emotion in her mind is the need to keep Lexa safe, and that alone is a good enough reason to stay, but not a good enough reason to say goodbye to her home. It's much bigger than that, and not solely what Clarke should base her decision on.

_‘We find solace in our purpose.’_

No matter if Clarke is ready or not to be unstuck, Clarke has to figure out _where_ her purpose is. 

And soon, it seems. 

 

°*°

 

“Lexa, don’t be foolish!” Anya says, already on her feet blocking Lexa’s path.

Lexa stops, eyes boring into Anya’s. She stands forcefully rank, clad in Heda’s coat and tries her damnedest to appear calm and stoic, but when the thick wooden door slams shut behind her, she flinches. 

Anya grabs her shoulders with gentle force. She levels Lexa with a look that is both worried and stern. “Don’t go after her.” 

“I am not–” Lexa snaps, but shuts her mouth and breathes harshly through her nose. She exhales slowly. “I have sat here for a sunraun, Anya. A full sunraun, and she has not come back. I do not like to be idle, nor do I have the privilege to ignore my duties. I have done so for too long, so I am going to the tower to do what is expected of me. Clarke knows where to find me should she decide she wants to speak to me.”

They hold each other’s stare in a duel that calls no victor. Lexa steps around Anya and walks past her, past the fire pit, and away. 

“Octavia stopped by,” Anya calls, her eyes glued to Lexa’s retreating form, “she said Clarke is with Lincoln.”

“When?” Lexa asks, frozen in her spot, back still turned to Anya.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Lexa mutters after a pensive moment, and then she walks on.

It doesn't matter if Anya follows or not. Lexa knows that her most trusted guard will be close enough, should her assistance be needed. But for now, Lexa needs to be alone, and Lexa knows that Anya knows that, too. 

Lexa furrows her forehead as she steps into the tower’s shadow that lies perfectly aligned with the main road. The walk was too short, or, perhaps she underestimated the mess in her mind. She can't afford to be distracted by Clarke, and the only way she knows how to ensure that won't happen is to distract herself with something else. 

The ninth floor is Heda's base from where she rules her land, and Lexa climbs the stairs of the tower with every intention of diving right back into the work of preventing diplomatic disasters between the clans. Her mind falls to Ice Nation and how Roan has stated that he wants Azgeda to join the united kru, but then she stops in her tracks, and she blinks not quite understanding what's happening. Lexa's hand is a fist that hovers in front of the door to her suite on the eighth floor, and she hurries to take a step back as to stop herself from knocking on it. If Clarke is in there, she doesn't want to be disturbed, and Lexa doesn't want to pressure her, so she backs away and hurries back and up the stairs to the room she meant to enter in the first place. 

There's already someone there, a familiar shape resting its arms against the railing on the balcony. 

“Clarke?”

Lexa stares at Clarke's shoulders as they visibly tense for a moment and then relaxes again. 

“I knew you were on your way here. I could feel you,” Clarke says, her voice laced with the kind of hoarseness that comes only after crying, but she doesn't turn to face Lexa. 

Lexa stands at the edge of the sacred stones in the floor, afraid to breathe, afraid to speak, and in the periphery of her vision she sees the stones shimmer a countless number of colors as her mind can't find peace. 

“My first instinct was to feel relief, Lexa, and it makes me angry,” Clarke continues, the hoarseness pushed through gritted teeth with emotions Lexa feels in her core. 

“I'm so… _angry_ with you,” Clarke says, soft and sharp and broken, and she spins on her feet to face Lexa and says, “because you brought me here – against my will – and you made me fall for you. I–” 

Clarke inhales a heavy gulp of air, tears rolling down her cheeks, silent and tragic, and Lexa has to fight the urge to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness. She never meant to hurt Clarke. In fact, she tried all she could to avoid it. But here they are, and Clarke is in pain, and Lexa caused it, and it cannot be undone. Lexa doesn't deserve to be forgiven. 

“I love you. And I don't want to,” Clarke sobs. She squeezes her eyes tight, squeezes the tears that blur her vision away. “I already have a home, Lexa, and I know I will never be able to love anyone else as much as… I already _have_ a home.”

Lexa nods, and no longer able to stay strong, she drops her head forward. “I understand,” she whispers. “I do not want to keep you here against your will. I never wanted that.”

“I don't _want_ to leave,” Clarke says, and when Lexa looks up at her, eyes shining with a sliver of hope, but still laced with heartbreak, Clarke says, “but I think I have to.”

It rips through both of them like razor blades, and the need to protect Lexa pushes Clarke forward and into Lexa's arms. They fold around each other, and it instantly soothes both their pain. The realization makes Clarke tremble. 

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, sad and worried, a hand gently cradling the back of Clarke's head as it presses into her shoulder. 

“I can't stay just because I need you,” Clarke says, and although the words are muffled by Heda's coat and flailing emotions, Lexa hears them clearly. 

“I do not want you to.”

Fists clutch at the waist of Lexa’s coat, and a strangled cry exhales a warm moistness that clings to her neck. All Lexa is able to do is to hold Clarke tight, so that’s what she does until Clarke has no more tears to cry and her body grows weak and soft in her arms. Lexa knows that it may very well be the last time she gets the chance to, so she clings to Clarke selfishly until Clarke pushes against her chest with gentle hands to create a canyon of thin air between them. 

“I already said goodbye to the children. And Nyko. And Lincoln.” Clarke’s eyes are glued to the collarbone that peaks from the hem of Lexa’s shirt. She sniffles once and wipes her cheeks with her palms.

“Will you allow me to send a guard with you to...” Lexa trails off, eyes finding the ceiling as she scolds herself for being foolish. 

“Okay.”

“Oh, uh… Or, I can go myself. I would like that, if you… if you will allow it.” 

“Okay,” Clarke says, because she’s selfish too, and this way, Clarke won’t have to turn her back on Lexa when they part - Lexa will.

 

°*°

 

The sky is a deep blue on the edge of black, and the twinkling stars are brighter than on most nights. Clarke’s eyes seek their beauty the second she steps out from the portal field, and she stares up at them through eyes that are red and swollen and full of a magnificent sadness. They used to remind her of her father, but tonight those memories are distant, and in their wake are memories of fireflies instead – it's almost as if they're buzzing in the air around her, but they, too, are distant, untouchable. 

The grass below Clarke's feet is wet and slippery, and Lexa reaches to support her elbow as they descend Tondisi Hill. At the foot, Lexa tentatively removes her hand, but Clarke reaches for it and links her fingers with Lexa's. Her other hand holds the duffle bag that contains a select few things, and amongst them are her father's wooden chest and the bird Isaac made. Clarke knows nothing of this yet, but when she opens the bag she'll find the batch of flameberries that Lexa snuck in there before they left. 

They walk in silence through the city, and Clarke may have longed for the stars, but the smog creeping its way into her lungs is heavy and suffocating, an unpleasant and unwanted thing. The air is cold and crisp and Clarke shivers against what she wonders may be an early November night. She has no clue how long she’s been gone. She could’ve counted the days, the sunrauns, but it seemed a waste of time; a peculiar thing to keep track of time in a world that has a sun, but no moon, and no seasons.

As the streets become familiar, Clarke takes over and guides Lexa the rest of the way. It's not until she stands on the sidewalk frowning at her childhood home she realizes where they are. There's a dim light glowing in the living room, and Clarke wonders if Raven is still staying with her mother. 

“You live here?” Lexa's hushed voice breaks the silence. 

“My mom does. It's my childhood home.” Clarke’s feet must have brought her here for a reason, so she steps forward, never letting go of Lexa's hand, and she doesn't stop until she faces the door. “I don't know how to do this,” Clarke says, the words scratching her throat.

“We let go and we move on.” Lexa looks at Clarke whose eyes are glued to her feet, and when the silence grows uncomfortable, Lexa’s eyes falls upon the door. “Clarke?” She says, confused.

“Yeah?” Clarke looks at Lexa who's running fingertips down the door. 

“Is this… There is a protection veil here. Did you know?”

“A… What? Uh, no?” Clarke frowns and looks at the door. The shimmering that looks like two doors, a red and an off-white, is faint and visible to Clarke only because she knows what to look for. 

“The red door…” Lexa mumbles in a whisper, mostly to herself as she studies it with awestruck eyes. 

“You can see it?” 

“How long has it been like this?”

Clarke shrugs. “I don't know. I didn't see it until you gave me your mark,” Clarke says, touching behind her ear with two fingers. 

Lexa nods, slow and thoughtful, and then turns to face Clarke. “I think the previous Heda created this veil. For your father. For _you_. It hides your energy from unwanted eyes. It will keep your… secrets.” Lexa lifts one shoulder in an apologetic shrug, a melancholic smile on her lips. “There is a veil over the hospital, too. You will be safe there as well.”

“Okaay.” Clarke draws out the word with a frown. The idea of hiding from the world she's leaving behind itches under her skin like a bad sunburn, and Clarke shuts down her mind to keep it away. “But… Why is it two colors? I mean, it's two colors… right? I'm not crazy?” 

“You are not crazy.” Lexa allows a small smile to curl one corner of her mouth. She runs her fingertips along the paint of the door, feels the veil vibrate under her touch. “I presume the door was red when the veil was created,” she says, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Clarke nod.

“I helped my dad paint it. I was… twelve, maybe? I came home from school and he took my schoolbag from me and pushed a paintbrush into my hand and said…” Clarke's reminiscent eyes grows thoughtful as she racks her brain for a memory so thin it's almost not there anymore. 

“Red will guide you.”

“Red will guide you,” Clarke repeats, nodding as the memory returns to her. “I thought it was a silly thing to say… But I was twelve, so...” Clarke stares at the spot beneath Lexa's fingertips with a grave look. The onslaught of old memories is unstoppable, and in her mind, Clarke relives the two weeks of silent treatment she gave her mother after she came home from school to find another piece of her father missing. “My mum always hated it… The red door. She painted it over after my dad died.”

Lexa looks at her then, feels her heart drop. She runs a thumb along the hand still clinging to her own and watches as Clarke releases a heavy beat and drops her eyes to the floor. The street lamp leaves a faint orange glow on Clarke's face, and Lexa wishes she could see the sun warm her skin one last time. 

Through the door, they hear the muffled sound of footsteps and a clunky metal sound as the door is unlocked. The door is swung open to reveal a wide eyed Raven in her pajamas. 

“Clarke!?” 

Before Clarke can even gather her thoughts, her best friend hangs around her neck, and Clarke drops the duffle bag to the floor to wrap an arm around her. Her other hand still clings to Lexa's, and it refuses to let go. 

“You're back,” Raven whispers into her neck, and Clarke hugs her tighter. 

“Yeah, Rae, I'm back,” Clarke says. 

Next to them, Lexa stands motionless and watches the scene unfold. This woman, who Lexa assumes is Raven, is Clarke's family – maybe not by blood, but compassion comes in many forms. And Lexa may need Clarke just like Clarke needs Lexa, but none of them need each other the way this woman needs Clarke. This is Clarke's _family_ , and Lexa understands now why Clarke needed to go home: Clarke isn't one to leave anyone behind. 

Another woman appears in the doorway, and Lexa hears her footsteps and her voice before she sees her face. 

“Raven, what's going on–Clarke?” 

“Mom,” Clarke says, her voice as wet as her eyes. She slides from Raven's arms directly into her mother's, all the while still clinging to Lexa's hand. 

And Lexa feels silly standing on the threshold of a stranger's home, her arm outstretched as far as it goes, but she refuses to let go of Clarke until Clarke says it's time. She catches Raven's eyes and finds the same fire that Anya holds: an uncompromising protectiveness. It calms Lexa to know that Clarke has someone like that to support her, and so she pushes back the jealousy of not being able to be that person and nods a silent greeting towards the brown eyes that watch her warily. 

“Uh, this is Lexa,” Clarke says, wiping her cheeks with the end of a sleeve. She looks between her mother and her friend, biting her lip to stop it from trembling. “Can you, uh, give us a minute?” 

“Of course,” Raven says, already pulling Abby by her sleeve back inside. Raven saw their joined hands, and she recognizes the look in Clarke's eyes as one of heartbreak. She may not know what's going on, but she knows that Clarke needs the privacy. 

Clarke watches the door swing shut. She can feel Lexa's eyes on her, and she knows from the pang in her heart, that this is it, that when she'll turn to face Lexa she'll face the one thing she won't be able to forgive herself for: breaking Lexa's heart. 

“Clarke.” Lexa tugs gently on Clarke's hand until she gets her attention. 

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Clarke says and sniffles before she meets Lexa's eyes, and once she does, her hands reach to cup her face, thumbs wiping at Lexa's cheeks. “Don’t cry, Lexa. Please, don’t cry.”

Emeralds that hold the most delicate tenderness of two worlds combined slide shut, and Clarke's thumbs catch the tears that spill from them.

“I do not mean to,” Lexa says, her words barely a wisp of air. She also doesn't mean to cling to Clarke's shirt, but her hands are already clutching at fabric, and when Clarke leans up to press soft lips against her own, she doesn't care about what's supposedly right or wrong. She kisses Clarke back with everything her soul has to give, and when Clarke trembles against her, she closes her eyes and whispers, “ai lukot, ai keryon.”

“What does it mean?” Clarke knows lukot means friend, but Lexa's words feel much more important than that. She waits for Lexa's eyes to flutter open, and sees the very depth of her soul, the essence of her being, the fabric that makes Lexa the wonderful woman that she is as she speaks her next words. 

“You are Clarke Griffin.”

Lexa kisses Clarke's forehead and releases the grip on Clarke's shirt. She takes a step back, slides away from Clarke's embrace, and turns around and walks away. Somewhere behind her she hears the door swing shut again and she knows she's now out of sight and out of Clarke's life. It took a great deal of strength to leave Clarke behind, still Lexa feels weak. She wasn't strong enough to say goodbye, and she wasn't strong enough to remove Heda's mark from behind Clarke's ear. 

The bond between them stretches and pulls and claws at Lexa's heart as she distances herself from Clarke's location. As she turns the corner, the shape of a familiar friend steps from the shadows to silently join her on her journey back. She told Anya to stay behind, to let her do this alone, but Anya has never been good at following orders from Lexa, and Lexa has never been more grateful for her disobedience than she is this very moment.


	33. XXXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been staring at this screen for, well, way too long. And I realize, that I don't want to write this chapter note, because finishing it means officially finishing My Soul Alight. But I guess time is due, so... 
> 
> I have a couple of things I want to say, and I will try to not make a novel out of it :)
> 
> First of all:  
> This was really, really hard to write - the story, I mean. The worldbuilding was a challenge I gave myself, and if I were to sum up the hours I've spent brainstorming and choosing and changing my mind and fixing plotholes and creating new subplots and... well, the list seems endless.... if I were to sum up all of those hours? I can't believe I actually did all that for free. 
> 
> So just know that I really appreciate that you took the time to read my story. And if you're one of those who left a kudo and/or a comment, just know that they have been fuel for my motivation all the (many) times I was stuck in a (stupid) scene <3 <3 
> 
> Second of all:  
> 33 chapters ago, I had a vision of where to begin this story, where to end it, and a great deal of the things taking place in between those two places. The story threw me a curveball or two underway, and there are a couple of themes and characters I wish I had been able to explore further - and this is one of the reasons why I've already started the brainstorming proces of a sequel. 
> 
> A sequel? Yeah.  
> I want to show you what it means to be Clarke and Lexa as a unit in my universe (basically what the 100 never gave us). And I know that some of you may still have a few questions when this story is done, and I hope to answer most of them with the sequel.
> 
> I can't give you a time schedule. I have a few smaller projects I want to get done before I start writing the sequel. BUT, if you want a notification when it's ready, subscribe to my user, to the series I've created here on ao3 (The Legend of Praimfaya), or just stay subscribed to My Soul Alight. I plan to kick off the sequel with an interlude of sorts - a small chapter to connect My Soul Alight and the sequel - that I plan to upload as the 34th chapter here... and also as the prologue to the sequel.
> 
> Enough of that.  
> I think I broke some of you (based on your comments, I think it was most of you) with the last chapter... I will do my utmost to fix that <3
> 
> Here you go. The finale. 11.000 words all for you.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# XXXII

 

 

The duffle bag hangs heavy from Clarke’s hand, the memory of Lexa’s lips still lingers on her forehead, and she draws a much needed portion of air to steady herself before she twists the door handle. Watching Lexa walk out of sight pulled the last molecule of strength from her body, and so the duffle bag easily slips from her hand the second she steps into the hallway. Raven's arms await as if she'd been standing there all the time with the knowledge that Clarke would need it as soon as she came inside. Clarke is grateful, falls forward, weakly wrapping her arms around Raven's waist, and then she allows the tears to fall as well. They're silent and hot, and Raven's shirt soaks it all up as if it was its only purpose. 

On the living room wall above the drawers with the family silverware hangs a large clock. It's made of the same red wood as the chest and the bird in Clarke's duffle bag, and as its insistent ticks and tocks fill the deafening void around them, Clarke squeezes her eyes tighter trying her best to substitute the images of Lexa with images of her father. There's a pain in her chest, almost like someone jammed their fist through it and curled their fingers around her bleeding heart. It clenches and pulls, and Clarke finds it unbearable knowing that Lexa feels it, too. 

Somewhere in this house, she knows her mother sits with worried eyes and a fear of overstepping her boundaries. The clock ticks and tocks away, and she soon finds that it's easier to cope with the train wreck that is her mind as she focuses on her surroundings instead. 

"You're still staying with my mom," Clarke says, still holding onto her lifeline with weak arms. 

Raven sighs, a breath that is both relief and worry all at once. "We both missed you."

 

“I missed you too.”

“I know.”

The hallway is quiet and hollow, and Clarke frowns because this isn’t the happy reunion she was expecting. She sighs heavily, and Raven squeezes her shoulder once before dragging her into the kitchen. There, Clarke takes a seat by the kitchen counter, and she lays her hands palm down on the cold marble trying her best to remember old family brunches instead of the stairs in front of which Nia was burned alive. 

“Hungry?” Raven asks.

“Maybe,” Clarke says, not because she's hungry, but because food may be able to distract her.

As Raven prepares a sandwich, Abby joins them and takes a seat across from Clarke. She studies her daughter, the broken eyes, the way she mentally distances herself from whatever goes on inside her mind. They may not have spoken much the past couple of years, but a mother knows her daughter, and Abby knows that Clarke is awfully heartbroken, perhaps even more so than when she lost her father. 

“What happened, Clarke?”

Clarke blinks, snaps herself out of her thoughts, and looks at her mother. She feels the tears build again and frowns angrily as she tries to hold them back. It doesn’t work, her vision blurs within seconds, and then she feels her mother’s arms around her. There’s a familiar scent, the faint memory of her mother’s perfume, and there’s a familiar voice that hushes calmness in her ear. A strong arm rests around her shoulders, holds her together as a hand rubs warmth along her spine. 

“It’s okay, Clarke. We don’t have to do this tonight. You’re okay. You’re home, you’re safe.” The words jump from Abby’s lips in a murmur, too powerful to stay hidden in her heart, too ecstatic to have her daughter back.

_What happened? I was kidnapped, I killed someone, and I witnessed someone being burned alive._

All of Clarke’s experiences flash before her eyes, too vivid, too real just be memories. She doesn’t want to talk about it, wants to forget everything, but her body is on the verge of exploding with the biggest tragedy of them all, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t keep it inside anymore.

“I love her, mom,” Clarke cries.

Abby’s hand stills its movements. “Who?”

But Clarke doesn’t answer. She pushes against her mother with weak hands, slides from her embrace and runs trembling hands down her face. This is too hard. There’s a piercing pain in her chest, and she heaves air into her lungs and holds her breath until the need for air grows more desperate than the need to run after her soulbound.

“Lexa,” Raven says, eyes glued to Clarke. It’s a hunch, but she knows her best friend, and she knows she’s right even before Clarke starts crying again.

“The woman that dropped you off? I don’t understand…” Abby trails off as Clarke curls inwards before her, head hung low, shoulders hunched and trembling.

The only sound that exists for a long while is Raven quietly placing a plate with a sandwich in front of Clarke. The scraping sound the porcelain makes against the marple surface makes Clarke flinch. It’s a cold sound, so unlike the wooden bowl she ate from earlier today, and it makes her ache for the warmth Nyko’s soup always provided her with. She looks at the sandwich, studies its content – tomato, ham and cheese – as she rests her fingertips on the edge of the plate. She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers around the sandwich with an almost stoic calm. “I had to choose,” she says and lifts the sandwich, and before she takes a bite, she says, “just like dad had to.”

“Oh,” Abby says, a low voice that’s barely a breath. She covers her mouth with a hand as to hold back the sob that threatens to break from her throat. The joy of having Clarke home again pales with the knowledge that she can’t fix her daughter’s broken heart.

“What date is it?” Clarke asks. 

“October twenty-eighth,” Raven says.

Clarke does a quick calculation in her head. It has been two months since she was here to pick up the wooden chest. It may not soothe her pain, in fact, it does nothing of the sort, but it gives her the one thing Lexa’s world doesn’t have: a sense of time. It’s a silly thing to seek comfort in, but she clings to it because it gives her an answer, and it’s better than no answer at all.

“Do you think the hospital will allow me to return?” Clarke looks at her mother who frowns sadly.

“Honey, don’t worry about that now. Take your time, we’ll figure it out.”

But Clarke doesn’t need to take her time. She worries that the ache in her chest will never subside, and if she has to live with that, it better not be for nothing. She needs to get back to work, to find her purpose again. After all, this is why she came back. 

“I’m tired.” Clarke pushes the plate forward an inch and stands up. She leaves the uneaten sandwich and two sets of worried eyes behind in the kitchen as she climbs the stairs to the second floor. She pushes the door open to her old bedroom, and without turning on the light, she lays down on the bed and closes her eyes. She doesn’t expect sleep to find her, but somehow her fear of falling into another nightmare is drowned out by an excruciating level of exhaustion. She sleeps heavily and undisturbed, thus never noticing that Raven slips into the room with blankets and pillows to take up a spot on the floor for the rest of the night. 

 

°*°

 

The first thing Raven hears when she wakes up is herself groaning weakly as she shifts to find better comfort on the floor. Her back aches more than her leg usually does, and she lifts her arms over her head and stretches until her muscles pop and crack along her spine. She yawns and blinks, and when she realizes where she is, she looks up at Clarke who’s already staring at her with curious eyes.

“Hey,” Raven croaks.

“Hey,” Clarke says and adjusts the pillow below her head. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone,” Raven says. “How are you feeling?”

Clarke looks at Raven while she contemplates her answer. She considers lying, but she knows Raven will hear the truth in her voice no matter what she says. “Terrible.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Raven asks carefully. 

The answer is not no, but Clarke doesn't know where to begin – or how. She nods, but it morphs into a shake of the head and a frustrated sigh. She sits up and buries her face in her hands for a moment, then rubs her eyes as she sighs once more. When she opens her eyes again, Raven is already on her feet and taking a seat on the bed next to her. 

“I went to Finn's funeral.” Raven traces the line of a fold on her pajamas pants with a finger. “I said my goodbyes, told him he was still an idiot,” Raven says, her words curling into a sad chuckle.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, “that sounds about right. I'm sorry I wasn't there.” Clarke shifts closer and rests her head on Raven's shoulder. Clarke remembers feeling guilty of Finn's death, but it seems a lifetime ago now. She opens her palms and looks at them – these hands that are capable of healing, but also of taking a life. 

“Something happened to you,” Raven says. She reaches for Clarke's hand, meaning to give her comfort, but Clarke flinches and clenches her palms into fists. “Clarke?”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Clarke says, a broken whisper.

“Hurt me? Clarke, you won't–”

“–I killed someone, Rae!” Clarke interrupts her with a voice that's not quite yelling, but still loud enough to startle both of them. 

“What are you talking about?” Raven frowns, wishing she knew how to rid her best friend from whatever ghosts that are haunting her. 

“I…” Clarke stares at her fists, opens them slowly. “I'm a healer, apparently a very powerful one. It turns out it works the other way as well.”

Clarke's eyes are swimming with another cluster of unshed tears, and when she looks up at Raven, they spill over. A river of tears roll down her cheeks, heavy from the burden she left behind in Heda's world, but still lives and breathes inside her heart. 

“You killed someone,” Raven states. She knows Clarke doesn't want to talk about it, but there's something she doesn't understand. 

“Rae…” A tired dismissal. Clarke shifts to get up, away. 

“No, Clarke, sit.” Raven latches a hand onto Clarke's shoulder to hold her in place. “You killed someone… accidentally?” 

A beat of a moment passes where Clarke wants to yell at Raven to leave her alone, but it's _Raven_ , her best friend who has always supported her when times were rough, so instead she shakes her head. 

“You killed someone on purpose.”

Clarke nods, her head drops forward in a weak gesture.

“Clarke,” Raven says, a gentle scolding. “I'm not going to sit here and pretend I understand what's happened to you, okay? Because I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this magical healing.”

“It's not ma–”

“–No. Hear me out. I know you, Clarke. Okay? I know you, and I know you would never hurt anyone unless it was the last resort.” Raven watches Clarke struggle to keep her breathing under control. “You did it to keep someone else safe, am I right?”

Clarke nods. 

“Lexa?”

Another nod. 

“She's their leader?” 

“Yes.”

“She loves you back?” 

A pause. Clarke nods again, and her shoulders curl inwards as the pang in her chest becomes unbearable.

“Come here,” Raven breathes, as she pulls Clarke into an embrace, holding her tight while Clarke breaks in her arms and hyperventilates against her shoulder. 

“It hurts.” 

“I know, Clarke.”

 

°*°

 

There’s something about the blue of the sky that seeps into Lexa’s veins and swells her chest with a profound longing. At first it had taken her by surprise, it had felt... unsettling, and she hadn’t recognized it for what it was until Anya had rested a hand on her shoulder, given it a squeeze, and said, “I kind of miss her too.” 

Since then, every time Lexa has looked to the sky, she has been wishing for the depth of the ocean blue to return while at the same time fearing its appearance. For Lexa misses Clarke, but it is a double-edged sword: whilst the color so similar to Clarke’s eyes eases the ache that clings to Lexa’s heart, it also feeds and nurtures it. There’s no way around it – it’s not only the curse of the soulbound, but of the heart so devastatingly in love as well.

Lexa takes a slow and deep breath, draws the cool air into the very corners her lungs and holds it. Around her, butterflies dance, and when the urge to give them what they ask for, the rhythmic vibrations that'll inspire them to twirl with excitement, she clenches her fists and closes her eyes. Lexa sometimes wonder if Clarke would be able feel it – even as far away as Polis City – and if so, would she even want to? In Lexa's mind, the answer is sometimes yes, and sometimes no – it depends on just how self torturous Lexa is at the given time. 

Sometimes Lexa feels an ache in her chest that is not her own, and sometimes her own ache is so terribly present she can't tell them apart. And when that happens, Lexa wills herself to imagine Clarke walking down the halls of Arkadia Hospital with a smile on her lips and purpose in her heart. It's what Clarke wants, and so it's what Lexa wants for Clarke as well. 

It doesn't matter if it's the truth or not; it's what Lexa needs to believe.

It doesn't matter that Lexa's bed feels empty and cold. 

And it doesn't matter that Lexa is broken. 

What does matter is Heda's people, and so Lexa goes to the tower more often than not. From there, she watches over her people from the ninth floor, and she tours the plaza to talk to her merchants, and she teaches Aden finesse at the impromptu game table with the little game pieces. She works harder, and longer. She ignores her body when it calls for sleep, and when exhaustion forces her to lie down, she calls for Nyko to bring her more dream catcher. It's not the nightmares that haunt her, but eyes blue as the sea, and hair golden like the sun, and the way her soul soars through the sky like a shadow singer when Clarke is in her arms. 

Sometimes she misses Clarke so much that she goes to the butterfly field. 

Sometimes she misses Clarke so bad she locks herself up behind the door on the ninth floor: Heda must not be distracted by matters of the heart. 

Sometimes she misses Clarke so terribly that she goes to visit Titus at the library only to press her hand against the book of Wanheda. She cannot see the spiral on the cover, but knowing it's there is enough to feel Clarke's presence. 

Anya tells her, more frequent than usual, that she is Heda, the keeper of Praimfaya. And while Lexa still believes the truth of the mantra, it has begun to feel incomplete. She is Heda, yes, but she is also Lexa: Lexa, the soulbound of Clarke. 

And sometimes it does matter that Lexa's bed feels empty and cold. 

Sometimes it always matters. 

Sometimes it's all that matters. 

 

°*°

 

Raven eyes the sign with the familiar last name on the open door. She hesitates for a moment, then knocks twice with her knuckles to let her presence be known. “Abby?” 

“Raven. What are you doing here? Are you okay?” Abby jumps from the chair behind her desk, instinctually meeting Raven halfway as her eyes examine Raven's legs. A hand motions for Raven to take a seat in the blue upholstered chair she has sat in many times before. 

“I'm fine. That's not why I'm here.” 

“Oh?” 

Raven sits, elbow finding the armrest. She pinches her lower lip between thumb and index finger and meets Abby’s worried gaze across the desk. “I'm worried about Clarke,” Raven says, weighed down by the guilt of being here, but relieved to no longer having to carry it alone. 

“Clarke?” Abby frowns, leaning forward in her chair to support her arms on the desk. “Is something wrong with her?” 

“It's been two weeks, Abby. She's not better. In fact, I'd say it's gotten worse. She barely sleeps, shuts me out, shuts _everyone_ out… I think… She needs help, Abby.”

Abby deflates, sighs. “She did the same thing when Jake died.”

“So… What do we do?”

“I don't know, Raven. Everything I ever did made it worse.” Abby scans the room, her eyes raking over fancy diplomas on the wall and bookshelves full of years and years of research on how the human body and mind works. Helpless and all out of ideas she looks back at Raven. “Going back to work didn't help?”

Raven makes a gesture, a shrug of the shoulder and a small shake of the head. “She won't talk about it. I tried. She says it's fine, but I get the feeling she's taking extra shifts just to make time pass, and not because she enjoys it.”

Abby leans back, fingertips compulsively finding the edge of her mouth. Her eyes are drawn with concern, and a slight panic she prays doesn't show. She doesn't want to add to Raven’s worry, but she knows her daughter, and when she stubbornly refuses help, there's nothing to do but hope she comes to her senses soon. 

“So… We wait? Stand ready to catch her if she falls?” Raven asks, her pragmatic mind needing a plan. 

“That we can do, yes,” Abby nods. 

“Okay.” Raven says, and because she has nothing else to give, she repeats her weak acceptance and grabs the armrests to push herself up off the chair with a heavy sigh. And with just as heavy feet, she walks towards the door.

“Thank you for telling me,” Abby says just as Raven crosses the threshold.

“Yeah… Can you, uh, not tell her I was here?” Raven says, looking over her shoulder, eyes fixated on the doorframe.

“This is between us.” Abby confirms.

“Thanks, Abby.”

 

°*°

 

Only a few things scare Anya, in fact, it is commonly believed that no such thing exists. Even Anya takes great pride in her fearlessness and knows that it's what makes her a skillful warrior and a great guard, and if she comes on as cocky and arrogant, well, that's a job well done. The perfect image does have cracks, and they may not be visible to most, but those closest to her sees them clearly. There's one crack in particular, one that goes by the name of Lexa. 

Anya has walked into battle many a time, and each and every one of them has been entered with a head held high and an unfathomable bravery that leaves no room for hesitancy. But when it comes to Lexa, these super powers seem to fade. Putting her life at stake for Heda at any time no matter the threat? Not a problem. Watching Lexa crumble to pieces before her eyes, however, is a much different matter. 

It's simply put: Anya fears that Lexa not only lost Clarke, but lost herself as well. Losing Costia was bad – traumatic, even – but Lexa never struggled to be Heda then. 

Perhaps Lexa and Heda were always two separate entities, and perhaps Lexa used her title to hide behind when she needed to escape from mourning Costia. After all, it was Lexa's purpose: to be Heda. 

The legends speak of soulbinding as two souls melting into one, a _new_ soul. It wouldn't seem farfetched to assume that the bond between Lexa and Clarke has changed both of them. It's obvious to Anya that Lexa has not only melted together with Clarke, but with Heda as well. To Anya, that’s a good thing, but when Lexa refuses to accept it, it becomes a problem.

Anya had tried talking to Lexa about it, but Lexa had jumped from the tree stub she sat on and left Anya alone by the lit heat stones outside her home, and with the image of a broken, worn out woman with pale green eyes burned into her retinas. Anya considered going after her, but her fear kept her in place; of pushing Lexa further away; of not being able to fix Lexa this time. 

And so Anya now walks on eggshells around Lexa, only speaking up when Heda gives her an order. It seems to be what Lexa needs at the moment, and Anya will allow it as long as Lexa isn’t getting any worse. At least, this way, Anya can keep an eye on her.

If being Heda is Lexa’s purpose, watching over Lexa is Anya’s purpose.

 

°*°

 

The sterile linoleum floor is a dull glossy gray that reflects the light from the ceiling lamps, and Clarke sits, hands wedged in between thighs and a likewise dull plastic chair, as she stares at her feet that slowly bump together. She wiggles the toes of one foot, watches as they press against the roof of her white sneakers, feels the hard material strain against the pressure. Her eyes grow unfocused as her mind wanders to a distant place where the sun is always awake, and the world is full of vibrant colors. It happens a lot, the daydreaming, so often that Clarke doesn’t realize it until she sees emerald eyes smile at her. And when the pit in her stomach grows too painful, she shakes her head and closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Clarke lifts her head and scans her surroundings. She sits in a secluded area of the hospital, away from prying eyes and concerned questions. She needed a moment of peace, a chance to give herself a peptalk before facing her next patient.

Returning was harder than she thought it would be. Everything is familiar, but at the same time not quite right. Not even these linoleum floors feel the same anymore.

And it’s ridiculous.

And so illogical.

It’s the same floor, for crying out loud! It’s the same stupid, ugly floor of the same damn hospital in the same goddamn city. It’s the same best friend and the same apartment, and it’s the same childhood home with the same mother and the same belated father. The memories are all the same; of her childhood, of her youth, of her growing up, of her choosing to become a doctor because she wants to help people.

It’s the same, and Clarke chose this because of it; because it’s her home. 

Only, it doesn’t feel much like home. It’s not that she feels like a stranger, but a visitor in a parallel universe, perhaps. One that’s identical on the surface, but functions differently when you dive into its depths. 

It’s a silly thing, but Clarke misses the light stones. They don’t buzz like electrical lights, and they cast a natural glow like real sunlight. And while she doesn’t miss using leaves instead of toilet paper, she does miss a lot of other things. The trash that has been carelessly disposed of in the streets of Polis City – despite the existence of trash cans on almost every corner – makes her miss the secret paths of the forest, and the clean and fresh nature. She misses the shadow singers, and the sun that never sleeps. She misses Nyko’s delicious soup, and flameberries. She misses the people, the warm, hospitable nature of Heda’s world. She misses her new friends, the children at the foster home, Lincoln, Nyko… even Anya. Most of all, she misses Lexa. And she misses the warmth that tingles under her skin and the lightness in her heart when she’s near her. No matter how hard she tries not to think about their bonded souls, she still feels it. It’s a consistent pull, and it’s becoming harder and harder to watch the sun go down and not seek out Tondisi Hill. Sometimes she wishes Lexa had taken the kru mark from behind her ear, made it impossible for Clarke to even use the portal. Sometimes it’s a comfort; a secret hidden tattoo-like mark that reminds her of Lexa, something to remember her by. 

Sometimes Clarke regrets her choice. 

But then she remembers why she’s back.

Every time she lays a hand on somebody else, she worries she’ll kill them. It makes her job as a doctor difficult, but with adjustments it’s manageable. She always wears latex gloves at work, even if she doesn’t need them. Or, she’ll have the nurse do the hands-on routine.

The point is: in Polis City she’s not Wanheda. Or the keeper of Praimfaya. She’s Dr. Clarke Griffin, who she _wants_ to be.

The problem is: while it makes time pass, which the sunrises and the sunsets do a consistent job reminding her of, it doesn’t make her happy. Not anymore.

Polis City is no longer enough. 

But it has to be.

A heavy sigh pulls her from her thoughts. She looks around, finds no one there, and realizes the sound came from her. The sigh leaves an ache in her heart, and a restlessness in her muscles, and so she pushes herself up onto her feet; her five minute break is over, must have been for a while now. It's time to go back to work, it's time to move on. 

 

°*°

 

There’s a brighter glow to the morning as Clarke awakens. She yawns and stretches and then slides out of bed to wedge her fingers between the blinds, and she ignores the layer of dust that sticks to her skin as she looks out upon the world. There, on the outside, a thick blanket of white softness covers the ground. It’s the first snow of the year, and while it usually brings Clarke a juvenile kind of joy, it doesn’t this time. Instead, her mind fills with the ghosts of Ontari and Nia and what they did to her. There, in the undisturbed snow in the street, Clarke sees herself tackle Ontari, feels the icy cold rush that washed over her as she sucked the life out of her, and then she sees herself fall onto knees and hands to vomit. 

Clarke releases the blinds, shuts out the world. She closes her eyes and takes a slow breath, and while doing so, she rebuilds the walls around her heart, because without them, she doesn’t know how to get through the day. She looks at the wooden bird hung from the ceiling in the corner of her room, and from it she draws the strength she needs to continue. She then pulls on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt and goes to fix herself a plate of food. 

“Morning,” Raven says from the couch.

“Hey,” Clarke calls through a yawn. “You don’t have class today?”

“Yeah… No, my leg is killing me. Did you look outside? I won’t make it to class like this.” 

“I saw. It’s crazy.”

With a plate of freshly cut fruit and a slice of bread with cheese in one hand, and a glass of water in the other, she goes to join Raven on the couch. She holds out the plate for Raven to take a slice of apple before placing plate and glass on the coffee table. She lifts Raven’s legs and takes a seat under them, and while she’s done this many times before, she still hesitates before touching Raven. She concentrates so hard to control whatever flow of energy might accidentally slip from her hands that she doesn’t see Raven look at her with sympathetic eyes. 

“I know I’ve said this already,” Raven mumbles through half chewed apple, “but I love your new breakfast routine.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “It’s just fruit, Rae.”

“And cheese.”

Clarke nods.

“And… water.” Raven raises a playfully accusing eyebrow.

Clarke shrugs. The first time she had coffee after she came back, she nearly choked. It was too strong, too bitter, and after three mornings of trying to get back into her old routines she gave up on the black liquid in favor of water. The fruit and the cheese is nice. And tasty. And yes, a habit she picked up after staying with Lexa. Like Isaac’s bird, the routine brings her comfort, too.

They both stare at the tv for a while. Clarke doesn’t know the show, and she doesn’t really care. They don’t have tvs in Heda’s world, and the first time Clarke turned on a tv after she came back, she shut it off again after only two minutes. She can’t enjoy it, for some reason, she just can’t.

“Clarke?”

“Mhm?” Clarke looks at Raven wondering why her voice is suddenly weak.

“My leg is…” Raven sighs, and pain swims in her eyes, “please?”

“Rae, I…” Clarke avoids Raven’s eyes. She knows the pain is brutal when Raven pleads, and Clarke hates to let her down, but she has no choice.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do_ know that, Clarke. I’m not a threat, I’m your friend. You care about me. You won’t hurt me.” Raven wraps a hand around Clarke's forearm, and tugs gently at it. She uses her other hand to pry Clarke's finger loose from a tight fist. She holds Clarke's trembling hand between her own calm ones. “You won't hurt me,” she repeats. 

At some point in the past, a point in time that's not too far away but feels ages ago, Lexa held her hands the same way encouraging her to heal her faux wounded hands. With Lexa's help she learned to control her energy outlet, and then proceeded to activate a light stone. Clarke's heart picks up speed as the memory floods her mind. 

“I'll try,” Clarke says, sliding her hand free from Raven's grasp, “but no promises.”

“It's all I'm asking,” Raven says. The words taste of guilt, but Raven swallows it knowing it's for a greater cause. 

Clarke's hands are shaky as she places them on Raven's leg, encapsulating her knee with both palms. She closes her eyes to focus on the invisible flow that caresses her skin, and it takes barely any effort before she hears Raven's heartbeat blend with her own. It yearns to be soothed, it speaks to Clarke, telling her the outer thigh muscle is in a weak shape. Like lightning from a clear sky, the realization dawns on her that she's never experienced a patient's body speak its needs to her before. And she finds herself staring into her open palms – no longer pressed against Raven's knee – wide-eyed and in awe.

“Clarke? What is it?” Raven leans on her elbows to better see what Clarke sees, but there's nothing that wasn't there before. 

“I… Uhm… Let me…” Clarke presses against Raven's knee again, trying to evoke what had just happened. 

“Clarke–”

“–Sssch!” 

It happens again, the muscles calling for her, and Clarke finds that when she concentrates on this particular part of Raven's body, she feels every fiber and vein and sinew vibrate under her hand. She slides her hands up Raven's leg until she finds the spot in her thigh that seems to call for her. 

_I am dying, Clarke, time is short. What are you going to do?_ Lexa's voice appears in Clarke's mind, and it gives her the strength she needs to do what must be done. 

Between the tingling warmth and the glowing under her palms, she registers Raven's gasp of surprise, but pays it only half a mind because her body is running wild from exhilaration as she realizes what is happening. She's healing Raven. Not just taking her pain away, but rebuilding her muscle. It's a job almost done as the rumbling that tells Clarke she has exceeded her limit forces her to remove her hands. 

“Clarke?” Raven looks at her with concerned eyes. 

But Clarke is not paying any attention. Her mind is too occupied with the memory of gleaming emeralds and a proudly smiling Lexa. An image that fills her with an indelible sorrow; because Lexa won't ever know of this, and it's Clarke's own burden to live with.

Clarke's vision blurs and Raven's arms wrap around her. _I miss her,_ Clarke wants to say, because the words are clawing from the inside of her heart, and they're suffocating her. But the truth hurts, and once spoken it'll be real and become a magnitude of pain Clarke isn't able to bare. Not now, not ever. 

“We need a drink,” Raven says. 

“It's eight in the morning,” Clarke reasons. 

“The Dropship opens in four hours. That happens to be the perfect amount of time to eat your breakfast and take a shower.”

A light chuckle escapes Clarke's lips, and because it feels like a sliver of hope, she reaches for her plate and gives it to Raven. “Okay,” she says and picks up a blueberry. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

 

°*°

 

The first beer is long awaited, and Clarke sighs as the first gulp washes down her throat. The second beer brings a smile to her lips, and Raven thinks she finally sees fragments of her best friend appear to the surface for the first time after her return. The third beer not only brings a plate of nachos drenched in melted cheese – Raven had insisted that they both had something to eat along with more alcohol – but also a tall, dark haired man who decides to take a seat by their table and cast his affection on Clarke. He fixates her with his green eyes and his impeccable charm, and it takes her far too long to realize that his intentions are more than just friendly. His movements are softened by the alcohol in his blood as he leans in closer to declare that Clarke is _godawful beautiful and anyone would be lucky to be the object of her affection, and if there’s anything he could do to become that object – and when he says anything, he means_ anything _at all... climb a mountain, walk through fire – he’ll do it, he’ll do it gladly_. 

It may be the way the green in his eyes sparkle when he calls her beautiful, or it may be the mentioning of fire. It may be the humble excitement of his affection, or the way his declaration falls from his lips with honesty and an awkward sort of grace. Whatever it is, Clarke’s eyes are wide as if she just saw a ghost. She pushes her chair back, jumps to her feet, and with an incoherent mumbling of an excuse of sorts, she storms out of the bar. 

In a rush of anxiety and frozen afternoon air, she quickly sobers up. But her lungs hurt from heaving in air, her feet wobbles under her distressed body, and she trips and falls onto hands and knees in the snow. She'd cry out in pain if she could, but something pierces her insides, and her eyes are swimming with the ghost of herself throwing up just after she took Ontari's life. And it's too real, and too much to handle. Clarke's vision blurs and she wipes her eyes with her sleeves before she pushes herself back onto her feet. She ignores the strangers asking her if she's okay, they're not good enough, they're not Lexa. She only wants Lexa. 

Her feet take her down a deserted alley, one she knows will lead her to Tondisi Hill. But she doesn't get far, no more than thirty feet, before someone steps in front of her. 

“Clarke.”

The voice is familiar, and even through her tears, Clarke thinks she recognizes the owner as well. 

“Lincoln?” 

“Clarke, are you okay?” He stops her with hands on her shoulders. 

“Take me to see her, Lincoln,” Clarke breaks, clinging to the embrace he offers her, and her next word is a violent sob. “Please?” 

“You know I can't do that, Clarke.”

“I miss her,” she whispers into his shoulder, no longer able to ignore the fact that she chose this pain herself. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Choosing Polis City meant finding herself, not losing herself. 

But this is Clarke’s truth: she is devastatingly lost – and she brought this onto herself.

“Clarke? Clarke!” Raven's frantic voice enters the alley, and she stops a few feet away, Clarke's coat hanging from a hand as she eyes the man she has seen only once before. 

“Good afternoon, miss Reyes.” Lincoln says, and he nods a small greeting while still holding Clarke. But when Raven throws him a pointed look, he clears his throat and smiles at her sheepishly. “Raven.”

“What’s going on?” Raven demands.

“I'm just… making sure Clarke is safe,” Lincoln explains, his eyes ever soft, empathy radiating from his mere presence. He loosens his grip on Clarke to let her go, but Clarke only tightens hers.

“You do that a lot?” Raven says, almost accusing him of a crime, as she walks up to them.

His nod is small, only meant for Raven.

“Here, Clarke, take this.” Raven holds out her coat, but Clarke seems paralyzed in Lincoln’s arms, so Lincoln reaches for it instead, and wraps it around Clarke’s shoulders. 

It takes a joint effort to convince Clarke to let go of Lincoln. In the end, exhaustion makes her weak and weakness is the cause of a lost battle, and Raven guides a crying Clarke out of the alley. 

“Let’s go home, Clarke.” Raven wraps an arm around her shoulders, grateful that the leg that nearly had her disabled this morning is now strong – maybe a little stiff, but the pain is all gone – enough to support Clarke’s heartbroken body.

Clarke doesn’t respond, and Raven considers the tragic, but reasonable possibility that Clarke simply may not even have heard her. They walk in silence, a sort of vacuum where pain is all consuming, and Raven comes to the conclusion that Clarke is so far gone that she needs help, and for that little mission, Raven needs help as well. First things first, Raven needs to make sure that Clarke is in a safe environment: Abby’s place. And when that is taken care of, Raven will set her plan into motion. It’s time to confront Clarke with her demons, but before that can happen, Raven needs information.

 

°*°

 

“I know you're there!” Raven calls into the empty street, arms crossed and an impatient scowl on her face. 

The winter sun has already begun its descend of the day, allowing for street lamps to cast a superficial glow on building facades and snow-covered sidewalks. Clarke is asleep in her old childhood bedroom, and while Raven waits for Abby to return from work, she decides to have a word with the guardian that seems to secretly follow Clarke around. 

From a shadow down the street, Lincoln steps out, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. He approaches her with snowflakes on his shoulders, calmly breathing puffs of air that's visible in the frozen evening. Raven wonders just how often, and how long time he spends outside, watching Clarke, and she feels a newfound respect for the humble man – surely it's not a comfortable task. 

“Raven,” he greets. 

Raven looks towards Abby’s house, making sure Clarke is nowhere to be seen. Finally, her eyes settle on Lincoln. “We need to talk.”

 

°*°

 

Jake Griffin was a man of many trades, something that is obvious to any eye that may cast a quick glance into his office – a room Abby decided to keep as it was in memory of him. There's a large, sturdy wooden desk up against the window that provides a view of the charming backyard with the apple tree and Clarke's old play house that Jake built himself. One wall of the office is covered from floor to ceiling with shelf systems, and the many shelves contain books and books on millions of subjects – all being one of Jake's projects at one point – and randomly placed amongst those books are boxes of, well, things: Jake's projects. Some were successful, some weren't – mechanical things, and electronic things, wood carved things, things he worked on with Raven, too complex for Clarke to ever grasp its purpose.

In front of the desk is a wooden stool Jake crafted himself. It wears its age with grace, and if you look closely, you can see these names scratched into the wood: Jake, Abby, and Clarke. 

On the desk is a photo frame that proudly showcases a family portrait. Next to it is a small lamp which currently lights up the room with a gentle warmth, and Clarke sits in its glow, on the stool by the desk, looking out onto the night covered backyard as her thumb mindlessly runs along the edges of the book in her hands; her father's favorite; The Hobbit.

“You're hurting, aren't you?” Raven's voice appears in the doorway, and Clarke takes her time exhaling before turning around to face her with a tired and unspoken request for context. Raven takes a step inside and leans against the door frame. “Like, literally, physically hurting.”

_No. I'm fine_ , Clarke wants to say, but she can't, because she can't lie to Raven. She won't. 

“I talked to Lincoln, and he–”

“–What? When?–”

“–mentioned something about your soul being bonded to Lexa's.” Raven pauses for a heartbeat, giving Clarke time to react, but all Clarke does is stare at her with panic stricken eyes. “You bonded? I don't even know where to begin to understand what that means, but you _bonded_!? You love her and she loves you, and you're bonded and still you came back!?” Raven raises her voice, and Clarke feels the anger boil inside herself. 

“I lost myself, Rae! I needed to go home!” Clarke yells. 

“Oh, bullshit, Clarke. I know you. You ran! It's what you do. Things get hard and you run. You ran from… whatever you're scared of… and… I love you, Clarke, I really do, but _God_ you're such an idiot!” Raven throws an arm in the air to punctuate her words. She stands in the middle of the office now, one hand on her hip, the other running through her hair as she exhales harshly. “Clarke, for God's sake… Why?”

They stare at each other, Clarke still seated on her father's stool, the book gripped so tightly her knuckles turn white.

“Because I'm Clarke Griffin.” 

_And this is my home,_ she wants to add, but it tastes like a lie, even before it’s spoken, and Clarke never lies to Raven. 

Raven continues to stare at her, calculating and frowning as she holds her gaze a prisoner. She steps forward placing her hands on Clarke’s shoulders. “What's with the book?” 

Clarke sighs and drops her gaze to the floor between their feet. Raven has an annoying ability of reading Clarke, even when she doesn’t speak, and in this moment, Clarke hates it. She doesn't want to say it out loud, but then Raven prompts her with a squeeze of her shoulder, and it gives her strength. “Dad once promised Lexa a copy.”

“You want to go back.”

“No, I…” Clarke starts trembling, and she squeezes her eyes shut because it's easier to ignore the pain that way. 

“Clarke…” Raven says, a broken sigh on behalf of her friend as she pulls her into a hug. “Does it really hurt being away from her?” 

Clarke sighs defeatedly and nods. 

“What are you running from?” Raven asks into the void as she hugs Clarke. It's not meant for Clarke to answer, because she knows she won't. 

And Clarke doesn't know if it's because it's Raven holding onto her, or if it's the atmosphere of her father's office, or if it's because her body has run dry of tears to shed – it could be all of it – but Clarke’s walls have crumbled to dust by her feet, her defenses are gone with the wind. And maybe that's why Clarke suddenly finds it the easiest thing in the world to stand up, pulling Raven with her into the kitchen. “I need to show you something.”

The clock on the wall says ten forty-five, the room smells of freshly brewed coffee, and Abby sits by the kitchen counter doing her best to not show how worried she is while she pretends to read the newspaper. She knows about Raven's plan to confront Clarke. Raven called it an intervention, told Abby to trust her, and Abby promised she'd back her up if needed. 

On the counter is a vase of tulips, and Clarke moves with determination until she's seated in front of them. Raven takes a stand next to her and looks from Clarke to Abby and is about to ask what's going on when Clarke speaks again. 

“Wanna know what I'm running from?” Clarke asks, her voice a shade of exasperation. 

“Clarke, what–”

“–This,” Clarke interrupts her. She picks a tulip from the vase and holds it up for Raven to see. It drips water from the end of its stem. “This is what I'm running from.”

It's barely a second when the stem starts to glow. Both Raven and Abby stare at it as it begins to wither in front of them. Bright orange leaves curl sadly as the tulip gradually loses its color. “This!” Clarke hisses, “is what I'm running from.”

The tulip hangs from her hand, weak like an old rubber band, and Clarke watches Raven while it withers the last bit until the stem is so dry it breaks under the weight of the heavy, pallid crown. 

“Clarke…” Raven says, but trails off not knowing what to say.

“I'm destined to kill things, Rae. Do you understand?” Clarke drops the remains of the tulip on the table and rubs her hand on her jeans. 

“I came back because I don't want to be that person, but…” Clarke's eyes widen even before she speaks her next words. 

“...but what, Clarke?” 

“Nevermind.” Clarke shakes her head and shifts to leave the kitchen, but Raven stops her with a hand gripping the crook of her elbow. 

“No, Clarke. You don't want to be that person, but… What?” Raven demands. 

“Let go of me!”

“No! What were you gonna say?” 

“I can't run from it!” Clarke yells. “It's who I am no matter where I go. Is that what you want to hear, Rae? That I came home and realized I'm not the same person anymore? That I ruined everything because I was scared? It's done, Rae! I made my choice. I'm back. This is me now.” Clarke pushes Raven aside as she slides off the chair. She's only feet away when Raven stops her, this time with a soft voice instead of a firm hand. 

“It's not too late.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Lincoln says Lexa hurts too.”

The knuckles on Clarke's right hand are still white, the book is still in her hand. In Clarke's mind there's an almost too real image of sparkling emeralds and a tender smile as Clarke gives it to Lexa. It clenches around her heart, and the pain in her core that isn't her own seems to pulsate more persistently in return. 

“I know,” Clarke says, and her eyes drop to the ground as her shoulders fall out of tension. 

“Fight for her.” Abby gets on her feet and walks up to Clarke. She cups her daughter's cheeks, and it seems that for every tear Clarke isn't able to cry, Abby cries ten of her own. “You are your father's daughter. You have his heart. I see it now more than ever. He needed to love someone to feel alive, and you're the same, Clarke. So fight for her. The rest will solve itself in time.”

Without a word, Clarke slides out of her mother's grasp like wind slipping through the smallest of cracks. She looks to the floor, the spot in which she places her next step, and the next, and the next, and she ignores her mother's crying and her best friend calling out her name from the kitchen. She soon finds herself upstairs frozen in the middle of her childhood bedroom as her eyes fleet from drawing to drawing. 

There, in front of her, memories of places her childhood mind conjured up of the magical world her father told her about hang side by side on the wall. They're so much like the real thing, it's tragically ironic. Clarke studies the drawing of colorful butterflies and wonders if her dad was exceptionally good at explaining the visuals, or if Clarke's soul somehow always knew this place. 

… as if it always belonged to Heda's world, even before she knew of it. 

“You're going back, aren't you?” Raven's voice is brittle as it appears in the doorway, and Clarke turns to look at her with a calm she thought had left her for good. 

“I think I have to try,” Clarke says. She looks back at her drawings, vibrant replicas of a child's imagination, and a yearning burns in her chest. “My mum is right. I need to have my heart in it, and that's not here… Not anymore.”

A heartbeat passes and Clarke finds herself encapsulated by Raven's arms. Her best friend hugs her like it's the last time she'll ever get the chance, and so Clarke reciprocates, giving Raven what she needs. 

“I love you, Rae.”

“I love you too, idiot.”

“I don't want to leave you behind.”

“Don't worry about me. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself. How hard can i be, I'm a genius.”

A wet chuckle. “Modest, too.”

“You know it.”

_I will come back and visit you,_ Clarke wants to say, but she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to. Instead, she hugs her friend closer, finding comfort in the fact that she now finally feels ready to seek out her purpose.

 

°*°

 

Lexa saunters along dusty red tiles, hands clasped behind her back in a casual manner. Her chin is raised in an almost detached expression, but her eyes are soft as they curiously shift from side to side taking in her surroundings. It's a sunraun like most sunrauns – nothing out of the ordinary taking place – but the plaza seems to bubble with an exceptional mirth that has Lexa wondering if maybe everyone else is in on a secret she's not allowed to know about. The unrest that followed after Nia's execution has settled long ago, and it pleases Lexa to see that her people thrive once more and still considers her their rightful Heda. 

Around her, voices murmur and laughter vibrates, and it settles like a smile on her lips – a soft smile, but one that doesn't reach her eyes. 

Above her head hangs an early blue, and even if Lexa were to close her eyes, she still wouldn't be able to ignore what's coming: the familiar deep blue that her heart tragically yearns for. It's a difficult task to be excited while her mind already anticipates with agony the deep blue phase of the sun. It won't be long now, and Lexa would've already stepped back inside the tower to hide from it if it wasn't for the message she just received by one of Indra’s men: Lincoln awaits her by the marble stairs with news of urgency. 

Lincoln and his scouts are back to patrolling the streets of Polis City, making sure the knowledge of kru existence in Skai Houd is kept at a minimum, and Lexa has many times bitten her own tongue as to not ask Lincoln if he knows anything about the wellbeing of Clarke. He would, of course, never provide her with such an answer – she gave him specific orders not to, not ever. 

The crowd splits in front of Lexa – always keeping a respectable distance to their Heda – and she spots Lincoln by the foot of the marble stairs. His ever calm presence is what first meets her eye, but Lexa soon sees that he shifts from foot to foot, and while it may be a subtle movement, she knows him well enough to recognize it as nervousness. 

“Lincoln, it is good to see you. I received your message, what can I do for you?” Lexa says as she takes a stand in front of him. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Indra and Anya, not ten feet away, approach them with curiosity drawing lines on their foreheads. 

“Heda.” Lincoln nods, his eyes momentarily falling to his feet, and he uses the two seconds to compose himself. “There’s a matter at Tondisi that calls for your attention.”

“Tondisi?”

“Yes, and time is short, so I need you to come with me, Heda,” Lincoln says, three sets of confused eyes now glued to him. “Please, Heda.”

There's an edge to his voice, a sincerity that Lexa doesn't know how to not trust. She fights the urge to command that he explains himself right here, right now, because Lincoln is an honest, loyal man, and his careful approach must lie in the need to keep this matter on the low, away from prying souls. 

“Very well,” Lexa says, “show me.” She motions with a hand for Lincoln to take the lead, and when he starts walking, she throws Anya and Indra a pointed look as to say, _keep up, I may need you._

They circle around the tower, and stops by the foot of Tondisi Hill, and when Lincoln looks towards the portal on the top of the hill, he can no longer hide his concern. He fidgets with his fingers along his thighs, and Lexa’s patience is running out.

“Lincoln, what is going on?”

“Heda,” he begins, but is interrupted by Octavia appearing in the portal field. 

“You have five minutes!” Octavia yells as she runs towards them. She stops in front of Lincoln, her eyes fleeting between him and Lexa. “Heda,” she says, slightly out of breath as she dips her head in a greeting, and she fights the urge to cower under Lexa’s glare.

“What happens in five minutes?” Lexa’s patience is running out, the edge of her voice making it very clear that no one is to utter one single wrong word, or so help them, because when Lexa snaps, the result is never pretty.

“You didn’t tell her?” Octavia’s eyes are wide as she scolds Lincoln.

“I was about to,” Lincoln hisses under his breath. 

“Lincoln.” Lexa thunders.

“Clarke is on her way,” Lincoln hurries to say, and he straightens his spine under Lexa’s glare, ready for whatever onslaught she may find fit.

“Clarke… What?” Lexa stops breathing.

“Any minute now.” Octavia looks over shoulder towards the portal, “We tried slowing her down, but… she caught onto what we were doing.”

“She… here? She is on her way here?” Lexa gapes.

“Yes,” Octavia huffs impatiently. 

“Wha-Why?” 

“She said it’s between you and her.” Octavia dismisses the portal with an eye roll and then looks back at Lexa. 

“She–” Lexa stares at Octavia as if her words were delivered with a foreign tongue. 

“Heda,” Lincoln says, “we didn't know if she is allowed to use the portal. If you need to stop her before–”

“–The portal?” Indra interrupts with a confused voice and a frown pointed at Lexa. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, answering Indra’s unspoken question – _yes, she can use the portal_. “I left the mark. For an emergency. To keep her safe.”

“Heda,” Lincoln repeats, his eyes urgent. “You have very little time.”

At that, Lexa looks towards the portal, and a wave of something soft and sweet washes over her. It soothes the tension in her body and lifts the heavy blanket that has engulfed her heart for a long, long time. It tells her to begin walking, and so she does, placing one foot in front of the other as she climbs the hill. 

She approaches the portal with no agenda but to follow the strings that keep pulling, and even though she recognizes it as her soulbound being close to her, she still doesn't dare to believe it. 

In the back of her mind there's a voice telling her she needs to meet Clarke in Polis City, that whatever Clarke's matter is, it needs to be dealt with anywhere but here on this side of the portal. A part of Lexa worries the wrong people may see her, the girl from Skai Houd, using the portal. 

There's a part of her that worries she won't survive saying goodbye to Clarke again. 

For a brief moment she considers sending Anya instead. Because… Lexa is weak, and Anya is a pool of strength she taps from when needed. Because… Anya is the last person to give in to Clarke's demands. Because… 

… Lexa falters. 

She gapes at the sight before her, what surely must be the fabric of a dream. It is believed that souls that are bonded will stay entangled even when they have left their vessel of skin and bone. Perhaps that's Lexa's truth now, only, it feels nothing like death – not that she knows what death feels like, but this surely isn’t it – it feels… intoxicating. 

“Clarke?” Lexa says, half a breath jumping from her lips. 

From her spot – having just stepped out of the portal field – Clarke dares a careful smile. Any fear – of being punished, or banished, even – that may have worried her before she used the portal seems to have vanished. Even if Lexa were to tell her it's too late, this moment would've been all worth it. This small fragment of time where emerald eyes look at her with the tenderness that always made Clarke come undone, and the warmth that seems to fill her chest and run down her spine… Even if it's short-lived, it's worth it. This is how she wants to remember Lexa; herself, too. Clarke feels more alive than she ever has before, and she will fight with all she has to hang onto it for as long as possible.

Clarke dares a step towards Lexa, then another, and she doesn't stop until she stands before her, close enough to touch her if she were to reach out – and there are no words to explain just how much she wants to, but she needs to know Lexa wants it, too. 

“Remember when I healed you at the hospital, and you told me to forget?” Clarke forces a slow inhale as to not trip over her words. “For my own sake, I needed to forget. And… I tried. I really did. But I think a part of me has belonged to this place even before I met you. I have drawings, did you know?”

Clarke rambles, despite her utmost effort not to, and Lexa stares at her thinking that for every word Clarke speaks, a hundred words are stolen from her own pile of thoughts she wants to share. 

“When I was a kid, my dad told me stories of this place, and I drew them,” Clarke says, a soft, silly chuckle released in a breath. “And I hung them on my walls, and I looked at them all the time, and at night I would dream I was there… They’re still there, on the walls of my childhood bedroom. And I realized the dreams weren't enough anymore. I…” Clarke breathes in and releases the air in a small huff. She has more to say, but Lexa is looking at her with this reverent softness, and Clarke thinks words won't be able to explain the pull she feels to this place, and to Lexa. For the first time since that night at the hospital, Clarke feels she's finally where she’s supposed to be. 

“You…” Lexa whispers, but her questions are too many, and her words are failing her. She takes a step forward, and she doesn't mean to, but – and this is how it always is with Clarke, Lexa cannot stay away – she wraps her arms around Clarke and buries her face in golden hair. Clarke smells of a frosty Polis night, but fills Lexa's soul with a heat stronger than the sun. 

“I thought I'd find myself in Polis,” Clarke whispers as she tightens her hold around Lexa. “It turns out I left myself here. This is where I belong, Lexa. Please, tell me it's not too late.”

“Are you sure?” Lexa leans back to find Clarke's eyes. “Once you claim your heritage, you cannot go back.”

Clarke nods. A tear escapes the corner of her eye and Lexa catches it with a thumb. “I'm Wanheda, keeper of Praimfaya, daughter of Jake Griffin,” Clarke says, a curl to her lip. “I'm ready to fulfill my purpose.”

Lexa stares into Clarke's eyes, searches for any sign that Clarke may doubt her own words, but there are none. 

“I'm ready,” Clarke repeats. 

By the foot of the hill, a group of people – bystanders no longer limited to Heda's guards – are watching their Heda pull the woman from Skai Houd into her arms. Most of them gape at the sight, not believing their own eyes. 

A smirk spreads on Anya's lips. She catches the eyes of the man next to her and says, “well done, Lincoln.”

He accepts the appraisal with a humble nod, and then he runs his knuckles gently down Octavia's arm, silently asking her to follow him; their job here is done. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke's eyes flutter open to a dimly lit room. The soft glow that wraps around her like a blanket is most definitely from a light stone, and for a moment, Clarke wonders if it's just another dream she'll wake up from with a yearning ache. But then lips press against her shoulder, and the hum she can't hold back makes those lips smile. And it's moist and warm, and most definitely not a dream. This is even better. It feels like coming home. 

“Is this okay?” Lexa murmurs between kisses.

“I let you take off my shirt, didn't I?”

Lexa hums, fingertips exploring the curve of Clarke's spine. “And this?” 

Clarke twists to face her. “Lexa,” she says, throwing her a look of disbelief.

“Clarke,” Lexa copies the tone of her voice, a playful smile curling her lips. 

“Shut up.” Clarke’s hand finds the curve of Lexa’s waist, and she leans in to capture her lips. 

“Sha,” Lexa murmurs into a kiss. 

 

°*°

 

Someone left a basket of supplies outside the door of Lexa's home. It contains food and beverages and a handwritten note: _Go back inside._

Lexa stares at it, and while the sender didn't sign it, she knows it's Anya’s way of telling her that she and Indra have any situation that may need her attention covered for now. 

If only Anya knew the strength Lexa had to muster to leave Clarke in her bed only five minute ago…

A small part of Lexa wants to defy Anya – no one commands Heda – but there's an unstoppable smile on her lips, and gratefulness in her heart, and a gorgeous woman in her bed, and if that isn't worth going back to, then nothing is. 

Lexa picks up the basket and brings it back inside. She places it on the counter and empties its content. Soft footsteps approach her from behind, and before Lexa can turn around, arms encircle her waist, and a lazy, warm body leans into her. 

“Back already?” Clarke teases. 

“Anya,” Lexa explains, holding up the note for Clarke to read over her shoulder. 

“You're staying?” Clarke snatches a handful of flameberries from the counter, still leaning against Lexa's back as she shoves them into her mouth. 

“Yes.” Lexa smiles, holding up a loaf of still lukewarm bread. “Would you care to share this meal with me?” 

Clarke chuckles into Lexa's shoulder. “That's a stupid question, Lexa.”

“Is that a yes?” Lexa knows it is, and when Clarke’s stomach answers with a well timed growl, Lexa spins around to look at her. Whatever she meant to say is long forgotten as she learns that Clarke is, still, very much naked. 

“Lexa,” Clarke says, smirking, but Lexa is lost in the sight before her. Clarke places two fingers under her chin and forces their eyes to meet. “You promised me a meal.”

“Yes,” Lexa says, clearly distracted. She bites her lip as she fights to hold Clarke's gaze. 

“Now.” Clarke grins. 

Lexa parts her lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, she nods, a slow movement that elicits another chuckle from Clarke. 

Clarke slides her hands along Lexa's collarbones and under her coat – Heda's color proudly hanging from the shoulder. “How about this,” she says, and places a chaste kiss on Lexa's lips. “First, you let me undress you, and then I let you take me to bed. Does that work for you?”

“Yes,” Lexa says, dipping her head to kiss Clarke, but Clarke dodges her with another smirk. 

“There's more.” Clarke watches a pout form on Lexa's lips and grins as she pushes Lexa's coat off her shoulders. She reaches behind Lexa and snatches another two flameberries. “When we leave the bed again, I will share this meal with you,” she says, gently forcing a berry through Lexa's lips, and she watches Lexa bite down on it before eating one herself, “and then you will take me to visit the foster home.”

“The foster home?” Lexa’s eyes soften. 

“Is that okay?” 

“Of course, Clarke. We can go right away, if you want.”

Clarke smiles and shakes her head. “No. There's a plan. One you agreed upon, if I'm not mistaken.”

And as the plan dictates, Lexa let's Clarke undress her. It begins with a shirt, and then a pair of pants, and soon Lexa's clothes is scattered all over the floor.

Clarke takes a step backwards, holding Lexa's gaze with that raised eyebrow of hers and that challenge that always seem to linger at the corner of her mouth, and Lexa follows, helpless against the magic that is Clarke Griffin.


	34. Sequel Preview: Our Hearts Ablaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you.
> 
> It's been a while!  
> I'm here to surprise you on this fine Sunday with the first chapter of the sequel, Our Hearts Ablaze.
> 
> I think I promised you an interlude, a short chapter that built a bridge from this work to the sequel. As it turned out, it became a full length chapter, and because I don't want to post that twice, i'll give you a preview here along with the notification I also promised you: The sequel has begun <3
> 
> Find the link to Our Hearts Ablaze below the preview.
> 
> I truly hope you will enjoy it as you have enjoyed My Soul Alight.  
> ~anonbeme

# Our Hearts Ablaze

  


## preview: chapter I

 

 

He stands in his father’s office, just him and his ceaseless pondering. A worry has infested his mind, but it is hidden behind his schooled calmness, his emotionless eyes. His hands are gently curled fists tucked into the pockets of his neat, black pants, his shoulders are squared and just the right kind of tense to manifest his status; he is the vice president, and inside these goddamn walls, he is not a man you want to even consider to make unhappy.

The room is dimly lit as he flicked off the light switch upon entering – the faint buzzing from the fluorescents in the ceiling always made his skin itch – and the only light source is the moon shining through the big panoramic window that makes up one entire wall.

His feet are rooted to the floor as he stands before the window studying the landscape that lies before him. Death and destruction for the most part. The past ten years he has witnessed life burst through cracks in the dry dirt, green sprouts growing into plants and bushes in the red, dusty landscape. For a while it fed him hope, that he would one day experience walking under a starlit sky and feel the breeze in his hair. Then, as he grew into a man, it gave him a vision, that he would one day lead his people, the citizens of Mount Weather out into the sunlit world and conquer it.

Mount Weather. An underground bunker created to house four hundred people – the president and a select group of men and women – in case of a national emergency. A tragedy happened ninety seven years ago when nuclear plants around the world failed and caused a nuclear wave that ravaged the surface of Earth and extinguished every living creature in its wake.

For ninety-seven years no one has walked the surface of Earth.

The plants may thrive, but the air is still toxic to the human race. No one knows for how long, but to the man now standing in his father's office, it is never reason enough to give up hope. That is the worry that occupies his mind. It always occupies his mind. 

Mount Weather. A safe haven. A prison.

He steps forward, as close to the window he can get without touching it, so close that he can see his own dark irises reflected in the glass, so close that he can almost smell the polluted air on the other side. 

Someday. 

Someday he will walk freely under the sky – be it a blanket of sparkly stars, or a baking hot sun – and he will draw clean, fresh air deep into his lungs, and he will devour it. Then he will lift his face and stretch his arms and yell with all his might that he is a free man, at last, defying his destiny. 

[…]

 

****

**[Find the full first chapter of Our Hearts Ablaze right here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476623/chapters/33441072)**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really, really appreciate it! <3
> 
> Any comments or thoughts you may have, gimme :)  
> You can also find me on twitter (@anonbeme) and tumblr (@anonbemetoo)


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